


Sugar is not sweet

by Kaiyo_no_Hime



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: A bit dark for the season, Angst, Eating Disorders, M/M, Some of us writers just want to watch the world burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Tea obsession, Tragedy, hums the theme to MASH - suicide warnings as per normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaiyo_no_Hime/pseuds/Kaiyo_no_Hime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q stared down at the mug in front of him, and then looked at the little sugar pot.  Two sugars was his morning treat.  Two sugars and some cream during the holidays, but just two sugars the rest of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I like darker fanfiction, and I was in a bit of a dark place when I started writing this (that dark place being half past far too late to be awake and far too full of tea and nothing else). So yes, it does get darker and darker. Yes there are trigger warnings. It is not a happy fanfiction. There are no guarantees. Please be warned, and enjoy at your own risk.

He stared down at the mug in front of him, and then looked at the little sugar pot. Two sugars was his morning treat. Two sugars and some cream during the holidays, but just two sugars the rest of the year. Sometimes three on his birthday to celebrate. A mug of tea, two sugars, and an apple. His morning breakfast. He would have eaten an orange instead, it was much more nutritious, but it was far too sugary. Just two sugars he always told himself.

Except the mission had gone badly the day before. He hadn't been fast enough, hadn't been quick enough, hadn't been smart enough. 007 had nearly been killed, would have been if he hadn't thought faster on his feet than Q had been able to thousands of miles away. While Q had dithered and stumbled, getting stuck on the security protocols for a simple door, 007 had had to find away around the obstacle while dodging weapon fire and escape. And all Q could do was type on a keyboard and admit defeat.

He was just glad now that 007 had managed to escape alive. Injured, and Q blamed himself for that completely, but alive. Without most of his equipment, but alive. And now here Q was, staring down at his breakfast. His eyes stared at the little sugar pot, an obscenely plain piece of pottery he had found in the dark corners of some random second hand shop, but a much beloved little pot still the same. And then he sighed, and pushed it away from his mug.

No sugar for him today, he hadn't earned it. Sugar was a treat, and there were no treats for simple quartermasters who almost got their agents killed in the field. It was better off this way, he tried to convince himself, sugar wasn't good for him. Doctors were always going off about cutting back on sweets, he was just doing it for his health. He really was far too indulgent.

But still, as he swallowed down the bitter, dark tea and nibbled on his apple and he missed the little cloying sweetness that usually lingered briefly on his tongue before he swallowed. Sugar wasn't something he needed he thought to himself. And, deep down, sugar wasn't something he deserved.

He would simply do without until he proved to himself, to everyone else, that he was more capable. There would be no sugar in his tea until he had earned it. Three missions, he told himself. After three successful missions he would take a sugar in his tea again. Three missions wouldn't be too difficult. Just enough to get him back into shape. Just enough to earn back his sugar.

Q stared at the sugar pot and sighed. Who was he kidding? Between him and 007 he would never see his sugar again.

.

“It's a sandwich,” Eve sighed, rolling her eyes as Q stared at the food she had set before him.

“I know it's a sandwich. Bacon, with mayo and mustard and tomatoes and lettuce and quite possibly butter if I'm not mistaken,” Q responded, poking the offending monstrosity with his pencil, “What I want to know is why it's on my desk and not yours.”

“You're too skinny, Q,” Even replied, placing a cold soda on the desk in front of Q, next to the sandwich.

“I packed a lunch,” Q pointed out, “A very healthy lunch. Rice with steamed salmon and a pepper confit. I even packed some strawberries if you'd like some,” he offered.

“Q, you're skinnier than a skeleton. You need some fat on you. Eat the sandwich, drink the soda, and don't complain. We can't have you light headed with hunger when 007 comes on the line in two hours, now can we?”

Q stared down at the sandwich, his eyebrow twitching nervously as his fingers flexed in his lap. Of course everyone still remembered the last screw up he had made. Another mistake, another red mark on his record. At the rate he was going he would be forcibly retired by the end of the month.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, his head bowed, “Thank you for the sandwich Eve.”

“There's my good boy,” Eve smiled, patting him on the head, “And if you've finished every last bite by the time I get back I'll even let you have a cookie.”

Q sighed and nodded, staring at the sandwich as Eve trotted happily out the door. He couldn't eat the sandwich. Not if he wanted to eat dinner that night and breakfast in the morning. The mayo and butter alone would decimate his calorie intake. He would get sick after three bites, his body wouldn't know what to do with that grease, and then he would get ill. He couldn't be ill while running interference on the mission with 007, and he couldn't eat his lunch because then Eve would know and she would be angry. If he made a single mistake she would blame it on him, and rightfully so.

He sighed and picked up the sandwich and soda, checking to make sure no one was watching, and left the room. She would never check the men's restroom for a sandwich. And, hopefully, when the mission went well and there were no mistakes, she would see that he didn't need her food and wouldn't force such a thing upon him again.

The sandwich landed in the trash bin with a squelching sound that made Q gag. He quickly covered it with a handful of paper towels and prayed that it was taken out that evening. He could only imagine the smell of the thing after it had been left to rot overnight. The soda was easier disposed of. Just a quick flick of the tab and it was drained down the sink. The can left in the trash near his desk as evidence to avoid anymore questions from Eve.

He took his tea plain again. She wouldn't question his tea. His tea was there to sooth frayed nerves as well as be consumed. They were British, tea was respected. Tea was understood. It was the soda that was out of place. Eve would see that, he hoped, and never offer him one again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! Chapters will probably be slower than daily, but everyone needs something to read while sipping cocoa and avoiding relatives! :)

“Avoid the door on the right, 007,” Q snapped, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he cursed the wayward MI6 agent.

Of course what had been a simple stealth mission had gone to hell. Of course people were firing guns in an office building half way across the world, and of course 007 had tripped an alarm that had locked down the system he was to get in and give Q access to. Nothing was ever easy when Bond was involved. But they needed access to the system, and the system was not connected to the internet, so the only way was for Bond to plug in the wireless card and give Q access.

But now there were guns. And bullets. And Bond still hadn't plugged the card into a computer on the network.

“I need in that door Q,” Bond hissed, the sounds of shots firing echoing through the room.

“You needed to be more careful and then you wouldn't need that door,” Q hissed back, frantically working on his end to do anything, anything at all, to get that door open for Bond.

“What is with you and bloody doors not opening Q,” Bond snapped, and then the crunch of wood sounded across the comm, “Don't need the door anymore.”

Q sighed and sank into his seat. 

“Just plug the card in and get out of there, I can do the rest from here,” Q sighed, his fingers flexing as his hands tightened.

Of course the situation was his fault. Of course he still wasn't working hard enough. He still wasn't fast enough. He still wasn't good enough. Someone else always had the upper hand, was always better than him. He was just the young pup trying to show too much teeth and the older, bigger dogs were just slapping him around. There's no way MI6 would keep him around much longer at this rate. He was fast becoming useless as a quartermaster.

“Device planted,” Bond's voice echoed over the comm, “Bond out.”

The line went dead. 

Q stared at the screen and watched his programs connect to the network. They were automated, they didn't really need him once the card had been placed. They were quickly downloading and securing the network, and then lower level data sniffers, those poor bastards in cubicles somewhere out of harms way, would search for the information they were looking for. And Bond would come back to MI6 full of bullet holes and complaining about shoddy equipment once more.

“At least you might get the gun back this time,” Eve smiled, coming up behind Q and startling him out of his thoughts.

“Knowing Bond he'll have to destroy it and use it for a martini glass on the flight home,” Q replied, smiling weakly.

“You alright,” Eve frowned, putting a hand against his forehead, “You look off.”

“It's the sandwich,” Q waved off, his smile straining at his face, “I told you it would do me no good. Bacon never did sit well with me.”

Eve frowned, and then sighed.

“Honey in your tea will help with that. Maybe you should go home early, you really don't look well.”

He shook his head and winced. A headache was building up between his eyes, but he knew it would disappear once he went to work on the compromised network. It would take more than an automated series of programs to keep from being noticed, especially with the security that was already in place. Route work, but necessary.

“I'll be fine. A little honey and a little tea and a nice secure computer network to play with. What else could any quartermaster want,” Q smiled up at Eve, “But no more bacon sandwiches please. I'd rather not press the matter.”

Eve raised an eyebrow, she clearly didn't believe him, but just shook her head and turned to leave the lab. She was used to the eccentricities of those who lived in Q's department, and knew when to leave well enough alone. Q, on the other hand, just groaned and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Honey was sugar, no sugar for his tea. In fact, he settled his glasses back on his nose and stared at his mug, no tea for him either. Clearly he was spoiling himself, and that could not continue. No more tea. But a little hot water. Hot water was warm, and he needed that right now. The lower levels of MI6, where they hid the entire tech department, were chilly and he could feel a draft already.

Hot water, he decided for himself, and then he would settle in for a long night of digging in networks that no one but his boss wanted him in. And, he thought happily to himself as he went to fill his mug, he still had his lunch. He had put a little sesame oil glaze on his salmon when he had cooked it the night before. Even cold it was simply delicious.

.

Bond resisted the urge to groan happily as he finally set foot within MI6. He was battered, bruised, bloodied, and three inches from the end of his rope. All he had to do was return his equipment, debrief, and collapse happily into his own bed and sleep until the world ended. And he would have to avoid medical along the way as they were always just so petty about things like bullet wounds needing to be repatched or some other nonsense. They never really believed him when he told them he had already taken care of the situation.

He frowned as he noticed the lights on in Q's office. There was a skeleton crew of technicians spread out across the labs, they never truly ever shut down, but Q was normally gone by now. That's why he specifically wanted to abandon his equipment now; before Q had another reason to chew him out for more lost and destroyed pieces of technology. Bond felt sorry for causing him so much stress on occasion, he was so young that he took everything so seriously, and he was so small that Bond was sure his heart would simply stop while he was yelling at him one day.

“Shouldn't you be home,” Bond asked, leaning on the door frame and staring in at the quartermaster.

“Hm,” Q asked, turning around and readjusting his glasses, “Shouldn't you be on a plane 007?”

“It's 4am Q, my pane landed more than an hour ago.”

Q frowned, and then looked back over at his computer, and then turned back to Bond, “So it seems. Come to give excuses as to why you're not returning your equipment in person then? I much prefer that over the sticky note with 'sorry' written on it.”

“I have your gun if that's what you're worried about,” Bond rolled his eyes, placing the personalized weapon on the desk next to Q's mug, “I'm afraid the ammo has taken up residence elsewhere though.”

“To be expected,” Q shrugged, picking up the gun and analyzing it carefully, “It seems to be in one piece. I take it everything else I was so generous to equip you with is mangled, destroyed, and possibly dying an agonizing death in the stomachs of the local wildlife?”

“There's only water in your mug,” Bond pointed out, ignoring Q's griping.

“I ran out of tea and haven't had time to run for more,” Q sighed, looking longingly at his mug, “You're free to go 007, the gun and I shall get along very nicely from here on out.”

“Try not to shoot yourself with it,” Bond smirked back, and Q turned back to his monitor.

After he heard the door shut his eyes drifted back to the gun. It would be work of a minute to reprogram it, he thought to himself. Just a few keystrokes. He had invented the technology, he certainly knew how to adapt it to new users. Just a few keystrokes, and there were bullets all over the lab, no one would notice one missing until it was already too late...

He slammed his fist on the desk and hissed as he felt the pain traveling up his arm. Thoughts like that were no good. He was tired, and hungry, and his body wanted caffeine and sugar and sleep and he had none of those things to offer. It was going to extremes, and he knew better than to let his thoughts stray like that.

With quiet efficiency Q piked up the gun and took it to the weapons locker on the other end of the lab. With it locked away it was out his reach, and out of his thoughts. Now it was accounted for and people would look at him and ask questions if he removed it before Bond was scheduled for another mission. He could assign someone to look at it and make sure it was functioning normally in the morning. He was the quartermaster, he had more important things to be doing than doing routine checkups on weapons. That's what minions were for.


	3. Chapter 3

Eve raised an eyebrow at the box of Earl Gray sitting on her desk, and then looked up at James Bond with a smirk. Bond didn't flush, but he did smile sheepishly and look away.

“I didn't take you for a tea drinker Bond,” she smiled, poking at the box with a pen, “I thought you preferred something a little... stronger.”

“It's for Q,” Bond replied, adjusting a cuff, “He said they were out of tea when I was down there last night. It wouldn't do for my life to depend on a gun made by a man without his tea. Give it to him will you?”

Eve frowned and poked the box for a second time. 

“They have plenty of tea down there Bond,” Eve finally said, still staring at the box as thoughts traveled across her mind, “You think MI6 doesn't know the importance of tea to their little boffins?”

James frowned then, “Then why the bloody hell was he just drinking hot water?”

Eve shrugged and handed the box of tea up to Bond.

“I have no idea, either way, I'm not your delivery girl. Bring the tea down yourself. And try to get Q to eat something while you're at it, he's just fading away to shadows.”

Bond sighed and nodded, and stared at the box of tea in his hands. It wasn't especially fancy tea, he had jut grabbed something off of the shelf at the market without really thinking, but he had just felt so sorry for his quartermaster. He was obviously running himself to the edge, he could hear it in his voice, and just seeing him last night had been sad. No one should stay locked up in the bowels of MI6 for more than a few hours at a time, let alone a few days. It went against human sanity to deny that.

“Think he likes bacon sandwiches,” Bond asked, looking up at Eve.

Eve snorted and shook her head.

“He's a health nut. Get him an orange or something. Anything fried and buttered just ends up in the trash. He won't even drink soda. But he does take his tea with honey and sugar if you want to be a dear and fetch him a cup,” Eve grinned and Bond groaned.

He had gone from doing a nice favor to becoming a deli delivery boy.

“I take it you do want that bacon sandwich,” he asked with a chuckle.

“Extra pickles on the side and some chips as well. Someone has to stay healthy around here to take care of you lot.”

Bond just smiled and waved as he walked out the door.

“And extra spicy mustard,” she called out as he shut the door firmly behind him and rolled his eyes. Of course Eve would take a spicy sandwich. 

.

Q looked at the mug in 007's hands, and then looked up at 007, his eyes narrowing into a glare. The man also had a bag of what seemed to be groceries. Obviously he was trying to butter Q up for some reason, and he was having none of it.

“The cafeteria is upstairs Bond. Even a master spy like yourself should be able to figure out where,” Q pointed out, still glaring.

Bond just rolled his eyes and placed the mug down next the the mug of now cold water on Q's desk.

“Moneypenny said you may need a bit of lunch to keep you going. Honey and sugar in your tea, right?”

Q glared at the tea.

He would love to have honey and sugar in his tea. Sugar alone was good enough for him, but he knew better. He was still too far below good enough to have earned tea, let alone sugared tea. But there it was, the scent wafting in his direction. Earl Grey, a hint of citrus, the aroma of honey. He could practically taste the sugar on his tongue already.

“I don't take honey or sugar,” Q snapped, turning to glare at Bond, trying to distract himself from the mug. 

It would just take a gentle shove to send it to the floor where it wouldn't be able to tempt him, he reassured himself. Just an accident, a small one. No harm, no foul. A little drop and across the floor it would go, and he wouldn't need to be tempted by it ever again.

Bond frowned, his hand removing items from the bag.

“Are you sure,” he asked, placing a Cobb salad, complete with far too much cheese, on the desk, “Moneypenny is never wrong about these things.”

“Moneypenny confuses her tea choices with mine,” Q sighed, watching as Bond removed two oranges, a banana, and a kiwi from the bag as well, “Mugged a woman with a hat, did you?”

“She said you liked fruit,” Bond defended, placing an apple on the desk as well, and then balled up the bag, “That should do you for lunch. Can't have you dropping dead of starvation when I need you most, can I?”

Q snorted, and then wondered how he was going to avoid eating the entire fruit basket Bond had managed to smuggle in with the atrocious salad.

“Despite what you seem to think, I am an adult 007, and perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Q snapped, glaring at the double-oh and daring him to contradict him.

Bond sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Whatever you say, quartermaster. Just try to at least eat something. There are rumors of a skeleton walking around down here and I'd rather not find out that you had been taken into custody by mistake half way through a mission.”

Q just rolled his eyes and turned away from Bond, hoping that maybe ignoring him would make him get the hint. Bond, ever knowledgeable of when he wasn't wanted, turned and left. Q stared at the food on his desk. The kiwi was straight out, he could explain that away by not being able to peel the damned thing. The orange, too, could be passed off that way as well. But the banana and apple? And the salad?

His stomach groaned and he sighed, resisting the urge to pull at it. He had eaten half an apple for breakfast. Far too much, it was sugary and starchy and not pleasant in the slightest. He could claim to be sick of apples. But the salad. How he longed for cheese, but it would just stuff him to the brim, and make him nauseous.

A quick shove sent the entire mess onto the floor. The others in the lab ignored him, used to angry outbursts whenever 007 dared enter their domain, and Q just stared at the mess now covering the floor. He could claim that he was suspicious that 007 had poisoned it. Lord knows that paranoia ran rampant in MI6 and while people would think it was odd, they would never ask second questions.

“I take it he got the wrong salad then,” Moneypenny asked, sneaking up on Q and making him jump.

“I told you I don't like bacon. Why on Earth he got me the only salad with bacon on it is beyond me,” Q replied, his fingers pulling at his sleeves.

“And the fruit,” Eve asked, raising an eyebrow.

“It annoyed me,” Q huffed, standing up to go look for a garbage can.

His vision fuzzed and darkened around the edges and he grabbed at his desk to steady himself. Eve's hand grabbed his shoulder, and pushed him carefully back into his chair, and then felt his forehead.

“You're not running a fever,” she frowned, hands on his cheeks now, “But you're cold as ice. Dammit Q, when was the last time you got any rest or ate something!?”

Q waved her hands off, standing up without issue on his own, “I slept just fine last night, and I had a perfectly healthy breakfast,” he insisted.

Eve raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue.

“It's just a cold. You'd catch something off the damp down here as well,” he insisted.

Eve just sighed, and helped him clean up the mess of tea, salad, and rolling fruit. She offered to get him something from the cafeteria, even just a bowl of soup, but Q turned it down siting the fact that he didn't trust the MI6 cafeteria to not kill them all with food poisoning one day.

As she left, she looked back at Q, hunched over his computer already, sipping from a mug of water, and he just looked so small. He wouldn't be the first quartermaster to just be eaten alive by his job and fade away, but he was her favorite. She made a note to make Bond annoy him more, and hopefully get a few calories into him any way he could. Clearly he was lying about eating. 

She turned, and missed Q staring at his mug, and then shoving it to the far side of the desk.


	4. Chapter 4

Q looked at his breakfast. A mug of cold water, half an apple, and the faint memory of tea. He knew it was ridiculous. He knew, logically, that drinking tea with sugar wouldn't affect his performance any more than only stepping out the door with his left foot forward or wishing on magical pumpkins. But he couldn't help it. It was something he could grasp, something he could control.

Something that was, deep down, his and his alone to have power over. 007 wouldn't listen to him half the time in the field, and Moneypenny merely shoved him off and ignored him, and M constantly berated and yelled at him over everything the Q Branch was responsible before.

But his breakfast? He could control his breakfast. And usually his lunch. And sometimes even his dinner if he managed to avoid others at work. He detested their questions and their comments. Moneypenny clucking over maybe next time when a mission went sour, Bond berating him over each and every issue. And M. M was right, Q was the youngest, he had had to fight his way to the top and earn his title and his place at MI6.

He should be better than all of that.

Q sighed, still looking at the half of an apple. It was a good apple. He had eaten the other half for dinner and then wrapped and placed this half in the fridge. Yes, it was browning just the tiniest around the edges, but that was merely oxygenation. That was science, and he knew and trusted science. But, right now, as he thought about having to get up, go out the door, and eventually show up at work, all he could do was stare at that half of an apple and think about just how much he didn't want any of it anymore. He loved the access, he loved the toys, and the gadgets, and the computer systems, and all of the lovely technology that lived in the bowels of MI6. 

But going in to work? Going in and actually talking with people? Being near them? Being judged by them constantly? That was something he could do without. Forever. He sighed, and pushed the apple away from his mug. He suddenly wasn't hungry anymore. He knew he needed calories to operate, but his body had a little fat it could burn instead. There was no sense in forcing something into his body if he didn't want it there.

The least he could have was control over his own body, right?

.

Moneypenny sighed as she watched Q walk in over the monitor. He was just so small, like some sort of abandoned puppy that was doing its even best to insist that he was alright. She knew Mallory was hard on him, Mallory was hard on everyone, and took it as some sort of slight that his technology branch was headed by someone everyone referred to as a child. He wasn't even all that young, she had triple checked to be sure.  
“Moneypenny, coffee,” Mallory called out from his office and she sighed.

The beast was hungry once more. And, if she didn't step around carefully before he had had his daily morning intake of caffeine she was sure it would be her head on a chopping block. She wondered briefly about sending Bond in before his coffee, just to see what would happen. But, then again, she didn't want to deal with chasing Bond down this early in the morning, nor did she want to deal with explaining bullet repairs on the monthly expense report.

It was much easier, sometimes, to just keep one's head down and learn to swim without disturbing still waters. She certainly hoped Q learned that soon. His determination to cause so many ripples as he made demands for security upgrades and increased tech funding was doing him no good.

.

Bond raised an eyebrow as he leaned back in Q's chair, his feet up on the desk, and grinned at his quartermaster. And then frowned. The poor boy looked wiped to his eyes, his skin sallow and clinging to bones, his hair limp, his eyes tired. Apparently him going home to rest for twelve hours had done nothing at all for him the night before.

“What do you want 007,” Q sighed, dropping his bag beside the desk and looking too tired to even glare at the agent.

“Didn't sleep well,” Bond asked, his frown remaining, as he removed his feet from the desk and sat up straight.

“It was a long night,” Q gestured with his hand, and Bond noticed the slight tremble.

He stood up gracefully, not bothering to straighten his suit, and grabbed Q's hand. Q squawked indignantly, but his hand remained firmly in Bond's grip. Bond, to his credit, was gentle enough not to bruise as he raised the sleeve and looked at Q's wrist, his fingers feeling the bones and pinching at the skin.

“When was the last time you ate,” Bond demanded, glaring at his captive, “A proper meal, not a little bit of lettuce or whatever health craze you're on.”

“I had dinner last night,” Q snapped, still pulling at his hand, trying to escape Bond's grip in vain, “I woke up late, there was no time for breakfast.”

“Bullshit,” Bond snapped, bringing Q's wrist into Q's line of sight, “Skin and bones.”

Bond let go of Q's wrist suddenly, glaring down at the tired man, his nostrils flaring as he glared.

“A proper breakfast, now,” Bond continued, “Oatmeal, with sugar and butter.”

“No,” Q replied coolly, cradling his wrist against his chest, “I can take care of myself. I don't need the likes of you and Moneypenny constantly treating me like a child!”

“That's because you are a child!” Bond roared.

Q stood his ground, glaring at the agent, and Bond continued to glare right back.

“I'll not work with you, not when you're like this,” Bond finally snapped, “You're too much of a liability.”

And, with that, 007 stormed out of the room, leaving a wake of nervous looking technicians and an angry quartermaster behind him. Q sunk into his chair gratefully and continued to glare at the closed and sealed doors. 

Of course it would blow up in his face. He could feel the apple from last night heavy in his stomach and he felt sick. Of course now Bond would tell M, and M would take it as the final straw, and he wouldn't be Q anymore. He wasn't even sure what exactly they would do to him. He was far too valuable to simply let leave, he knew the ins and outs of every system and every mission currently running.

Most likely a dark cell until he wasn't even a memory.

Q sighed, rubbing his face with his hands, and turned to his computer. The least he could do before they carted him away was make sure everything was up to date.


	5. Chapter 5

Moneypenny sighed as Bond barged into the room, the door slamming heavily behind him. His clothes were a bit ruffled, he had taken the stairs then instead of an elevator like a sane person, and his face was a mask of anger. Apparently something had happened, and, as none of the building or London in general was exploding, then it wasn't directly connected to MI6. She hoped.

“I need to see M,” Bond growled, and Moneypenny merely raised an eyebrow.

Of course he needed to see M. Everyone who came into the office came to see M, or to trade workshop gossip with her. And, as Bond did not look to be in the chatty mood, she very much doubted that he wanted to talk about who was shagging who in which department. Or who wasn't shagging who, depending upon the case.

“He's busy, Bond, take a number,” she sighed.

Bond growled and began to stalk toward the closed doors of the inner office. He tugged once on the handles but they remained stubbornly closed.

“It's MI6, Bond, not nursery school. Doors that don't want to open don't open,” she reminded him with a smirk, “What's so urgent?”

“Q,” Bond snapped, turning on her.

“Q,” Eve repeated.

“He's not,” Bond paused, rubbing a hand through his hair, “He's not... when was the last time you saw him eat anything? Or drink anything besides water for that matter?”

Eve paused, tapping her finger on her desk as she thought on the matter for a few moments. She knew he hadn't eaten the bacon sandwich. He may be a quartermaster but he was complete shit at hiding what he did and didn't do in MI6, he had eaten a little of his lunch that night but only a few bites...

“A little something a few days back. But he always has his tea mug about; I'm surprised he hasn't figured out a way to safely mainline the stuff via IV yet.”

“He's skin and bones,” Bond growled, “A complete wreck. It's not healthy, and it's not safe.”

“What's not healthy or safe,” M asked from behind Bond.

Bond turned away from Moneypenny to face M, his face washing between respectfully stony and murderously angry. He was angry at himself for not noticing how bad Q had gotten as of late, and was angry at others for not noticing either. He was the Quartermaster at MI6, someone should be keeping tabs on him!

“Q, sir,” Bond bit out, “He's not eating properly. It's affecting his health. I don't want him covering any of my missions until he's in better shape.”

Mallory frowned, and then motioned for Bond to follow him into his office, “Hold my calls. The house needs cleaning first.”

“Yes sir,” Moneypenny nodded.

.

Mallory rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he watched Bond leave the room and close the doors behind him. He was fast beginning to hate this job. Running MI6 was always like trying to reign in a circus with three loose camels and a sick elephant. But now he had a peevish agent that refused to work with his quartermaster, and apparently a quartermaster that was fast collapsing under the weight of his job.

To be honest he wasn't surprised. He had seen things like that before. True it was usually just a few nervous jumps and then a bullet through the head, but it was still a collapse. Quite frankly he was shocked that his predecessor had allowed him to advance to Q in the first place. He was talented, Mallory would never deny that, but he was still too young, too fresh behind the ears. A few more years learning the ropes at least would have helped him spectacularly. 

But there was nothing to be done about that now. Silva had changed the game quite effectively, and now they had a young Q that needed help, and an agency that couldn't spare him long enough for him to get that help. Desperate times and desperate measures.

“Moneypenny, waylay Bond and tell him I agree,” he sighed, “And get Q up here. Now.”

“Yes sir.”

.

Q finished putting the entire server in order, everything organized and neatly filed, when a runner showed up to tell him to report to M. He nodded and motioned the boy away, and looked over at his empty mug. He so would have liked to have one last mug of tea before he disappeared to wherever it was that MI6 disappeared their useless agents. Maybe they would let him have one before he was sent off. British sensibilities and all that.

He waved one of his minions over and motioned for them to take over. He wondered briefly who would become Q after he left, and then decided he didn't really care. He just felt sorry for the poor bastard. It wasn't a job he would wish upon his worst enemy.

.

Eve smiled up at Q as he nervously walked through the open office doors. Her smile faded to a frown when she got a proper look at him, and decided that Bond was actually right for once. He looked like he was drowning in his clothes, his eyes sporting purple bags, his hair limp. He clearly needed help and had no clue how to ask for it, so she and M and Bond were going to have to step in to give him help. MI6 needed him in one piece now more than ever, and she, for once, was sick of losing friends to this job.

“Just go on through, he's waiting,” she said, trying to figure out how to make him eat a biscuit without having to pry his mouth open and force it down.

“Thanks,” his voice quavered, “Wish me luck?”

“Always.”

.

Q closed the doors to M's office nervously behind him and approached Mallory's desk. He was, of course, pretending to be working on paperwork. The only reason Q knew him to be pretending was that he didn't know of any documents that M would deal with that wouldn't require digital backups, and his handwriting was atrocious. It made him a little less nervous to see M a little nervous at all.

“Please sit,” M gestured at the single chair in front of the desk and Q swallowed and nodded, lowering himself into the chair carefully.

“Several people have brought it to my attention that you are not taking adequate care of yourself physically,” M held up a hand to staunch Q's squeaking retort, “You're a young quartermaster, and perhaps this was a little bit too much for you at once. Either way, we can't afford for you to break under pressure at this point. We're assigning you a caretaker to make sure you bloody well eat and sleep.”

Q opened and closed his mouth a few times, giving off much the impression of an angry fish, and glared at Mallory.

“Q, it's temporary until you shake yourself back into shape, that's all.”

“I'm not being terminated then,” Q finally asked, his hands clenching the arms of the chair tightly.

“Terminated!?” M roared in surprised, “I should bloody well hope not, you're the only one that knows the ins and outs of the entire computer system! It would be a bit stupid to get rid of the person who runs your computers.”

Q nodded solemnly, his stomach easing a little and his heart fitting back into his chest, “How long will Miss Moneypenny need to stay with me?” he finally asked.

“Miss Moneypenny can't spare the time in her schedule I'm afraid,” M sighed, and pressed the buzzer lightly once, “I'm afraid you'll have to make do with him.”

Q turned in his seat to see Bond entering the room, Eve waving to Q from behind him.

“I'll bloody well not have him in my flat,” Q roared, jumping out of his seat to yell at Bond properly.

Or, at least, that was the plan. But once on his feet the room suddenly swam a little and darkness began to fade into his vision

“Q,” Bond snapped, reaching out toward him, but Q just shook his head, his hand trying to catch a grip on the back of the chair and missing.

And then the room ceased spinning, and ceased to exist altogether, and the last thing Q remembered was two loud voices yelling his name, and him wishing that the darkness would keep him.


	6. Chapter 6

Q blinked and groaned, taking in the white walls and the sterile smell of medical. Of course he would end up here, and how he hated it. He scratched at the throbbing in his harm and frowned, looking over with confused eyes at the swath of tape that was layered there. Ah, he saw the IV, of course.

His head was a little off but not woozy, so probably just a simple saline solution then. He hadn't been drinking enough liquids, of course he had passed out. Q sighed, and started removing the tape from his arm. He would have to watch that in the future, it wouldn't do to be unconscious on the floor while directing a mission. 

A rough cough from the doorway distracted him from his mission to rid himself of the ridiculously itchy needle stuck in his arm.

“Quartermaster,” the doctor chuckled, “I expect escape attempts from the double-ohs, but I had hoped you would stay put for a little while before jumping ship as well.”

Q sighed and rolled his eyes, but continued to pick at the tape on his arm.

“A bit dehydrated, your blood pressure is a bit low, and your iron count is ghastly,” the doctor sighed, “All in all, eat your vegetables, drink some orange juice, and for god's sake eat a proper meal now and then. My granddaughter has more on her bones than you, and she's twelve!”

“Yes sir,” Q sighed, looking properly lectured, “Can I go now?”

“Of course. M said to send you straight home. Take a cab, drink your liquids, and get a proper night sleep. And try not to end up down here again please, there needs to be at least someone sane telling them all what to do up there. They bloody well never listen to me.”

Q chuckled and nodded, and let the doctor take out the IV properly and stick a plaster on the wound. When he shifted out of bed and stood up he was glad to see that there were no spots in his eyes or looming darkness. He smiled and nodded at the doctor and quickly slipped out of the room, happily noting a complete lack of 007 in the area. 

Apparently M had changed his mind about needing a caretaker after all. He would have to make a note to pass out more often if this was the best way for people to actually listen to him instead of treating him like a child.

.

Bond glared at the cursor blinking on the computer screen in front of him, taunting him with each passing moment. If he had known how much paperwork would be required to babysit a simple quartermaster, even if he was the head of Q department, he never would have suggested it in the first place. Or, more likely, he would have told M it was necessary and then requested an assignment on the other side of the bloody planet so that he wouldn't be the actual babysitter.

Reports about death and murder he could do. Requisition forms for assignments like this? A bloody headache.

Moneypenny grinned as she waltzed into the room, and Bond dearly wished he could wipe the smile off her face.

“Still busy at it then,” she smirked, sitting gently on the edge of his rarely used desk and looking over his shoulder, “Now you know why the rest of us hate you so; it's us that generally get stuck with this.”

“Anything your heart desires if you do this for me now,” Bond nearly begged, turning to his old friend, “Please, I can't stand the torture anymore.”

“It's a good thing that M sent me then,” Moneypenny sighed, shooing him from his chair, “It seems no one remembered to tell the good doctor to keep Q, and he's already left for home.”

“Fuck,” Bond cursed, bolting from the chair and grabbing his coat, “I'm going to kill the bastard.”

Eve hummed in agreement as she settled in in front of the computer and wondered how long it would take for Q to dispose of Bond's body. He may clearly have a few issues that needed tweaking, they all did at MI6 really, but Q was the one who started letting it interfere with his work. He only had himself to blame, really. Of course, as Q, he also had access to all of the most lovely gadgets around. She had it on a week before Q showed up with a brilliant new gadget that disposed of a body instantly, and no one would be able to find Bond anywhere.

.

Q closed the door and activated the security system. It was never paranoia if everyone really was out to get you he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. His mother would have laughed at him, his father would have glared. Technology had never been their thing. Just his. Always just his.

The dying cactus greeted him limply and he nodded to it. He couldn't keep a cat, and he wasn't very good with a plant either, but it was nice to say hello at the end of a long day. At the very least he had warm slippers and a comfortable couch. There was nothing on, he already knew that, but he felt more like falling asleep to a movie than anything else.

But first, he stopped himself as he passed the tiny kitchen, some water. As hilarious as the fainting episode had been he didn't look forward to any more incidents of the sort. He was an adult, he had to be able to work like one. Falling unconscious every time he sat up would be a liability, and then MI6 surely would have him terminated, computer system or not.

“What do you think, Doctor Who marathon tonight, or Sherlock,” Q asked the cactus.

The cactus seemed to wilt in answer.

“Doctor Who it is,” Q replied, sipping from his mug and stretching out on the couch.

It had been a while since he had bothered to reward himself like this, and it felt good to be lazy. It would be back to work like normal the next day, hard thinking and hard running, but right now it was just him, a mad man with a box, and a happily wilting plant. It was a good life.

.

Q was startled out of his slumber by a pounding on his door and he turned over and groaned, glancing at the screen. Three hours. Three hours he had been happily asleep, only now some idiot was at his door and pounding away like they were bloody Martin Luther. He swore violently and drew his blanket around him as he wandered toward the door to yell at them.

“What the fuck,” his words were cut off as Bond just glared at him, bags in hand.

“You left medical without permission,” Bond hissed, pushing Q aside as he barged into the apartment.

“The doctor said I was good to go, nothing was wrong with me,” Q snapped back, glaring at the unwanted intruder.

“What did you have for dinner, Q,” Bond asked, setting the bag down on the messy kitchen table and removing little boxes of Chinese food.

“Garlic lettuce confit and some salmon,” Q lied, biting at his cheek and glaring down at the boxes that seemed to keep on coming.

“Bullshit,” Bond said quietly, his fist clenched, “No dishes outside of a mug, and no smell of garlic anywhere. Dammit Q, you need to eat something!”

“I don't have to do anything I don't fucking want to,” Q growled, tromping past Bond and going back to the television.

“No,” Bond grabbed his arm as he passed and thrust a box of fried rice and a set of chopsticks into his hand, “Half this box, at least.”

Q glared at Bond, pulling his arm free of the weak grip, and threw the box of rice on the ground.

“No,” he hissed, “You do not get to tell me what to do and when to do it. It's my life Bond, so fuck off.”

And with that Q stomped to his room and shut the door with a resounding slam. 

Bond sighed, and stooped to start cleaning up the spilled rice. Looking back, it really hadn't been the best plan, or the best way to address the situation. If it had been him that had to deal with him right then he would have been lucky not to be full of bullet holes right now. But dammit, he didn't know how to make a full grown child sit down and eat.

He really wish he had requested that mission on the other side of Europe right about now. Or possibly Australia, he would have been happily not cleaning up fried rice from a dirty floor in Australia right now.


	7. Chapter 7

Q woke up in the morning with a pounding headache, and couldn't for the life of him remember what would have caused such pain. He hadn't been involved with any explosions, his bed was proof he hadn't been randomly kidnapped, and he had already weaned himself off of caffeine so it couldn't be withdrawal.

And then he remembered the night before in perfect detail. And cursed very loudly to himself. Blood James Bond was babysitting him. Bloody James Bond was in his flat making a nuisance of himself. And, judging from the pounding on his thankfully locked bedroom door, bloody James Bond was still in the flat and still being a nuisance.

He glanced over at the clock. Half five. He still had half an hour before he needed to leave for work, so at least he had that going for him. Having to be hauled out of bed like a child just to make it anywhere on time would have been the final straw.

“Go away,” Q shouted at the door, covering his face with a pillow and wondering how hard it would be to suffocate himself.

“You're going to make us late at this rate,” Bond responded through the door and Q just groaned.

But he threw his pillow to the side and rolled out of bed, slowly, and flinched as his feet met the icy floor. He looked back at the blankets, longing for their warm embrace, but still trudged on. Pants, socks, underwear, shirt, cardigan. Fresh, new, and he fluffed at his hair. There was no doing anything with that.

“Q,” Bond called again through the door.

“Just a bloody minute,” Q snapped, disabling the locks and tossing the door open, “I'm not a child. I'll be on time for work.”

“You haven't eat breakfast yet,” Bond pointed out, glaring at him and catching hold of Q's shoulders, “There will be no going anywhere until you have at least half a bowl of something warm and nutritious in you.”

Q glared at the wall and struggled weakly in Bond's grip, but was led through the now much neater flat to his kitchen table and forced into a chair. He stared at the bowl of still steaming oatmeal in front of him, looked menacingly at the banana slices, and then was just confused by the pill in his spoon.

“What's this,” he finally asked, looking up at Bond with a questioningly look.

“That's oatmeal,” Bond responded nonchalantly, “It's good for you. Now eat up, I don't want to have to explain to M that we were late because you couldn't figure out what oatmeal was.”

“I meant the pill,” Q snarled, glaring across the table at Bond.

“That's a multi vitamin. The doctor said you needed one as you aren't eating healthy. You'll be eating that or M will pull you from service for health issues,” Bond replied coolly.

Q stared down at the pill, and then brought it up to his mouth and swallowed it dry. He grimaced as he could feel it inching down his esophagus, seeming to catch and stick on every inch.

“Now eat or you won't digest and absorb it properly,” Bond replied, his eyes still frosty.

Q sighed, and started spooning tiny mouthfuls of the warm, overly sugary mush into his mouth and swallowing. He grimaced as he could taste the richness of the butter in with the sugary overload that was molasses, and wondered just how much he had to eat before Bond would be satisfied.

A quarter way through the bowl Q stopped and blanched, pushing the bowl away, spoon still sticking up straight like a mast. Bond raised an eyebrow and glared at Q, pushing the bowl back.

“If I eat anymore I'll be sick,” Q snapped, pushing the bowl away for the second time.

Bond stared at him, his eyes traveling over Q's face, and then nodded, and collected the bowl, heading into the kitchen. Q sighed and slouched down in the chair, his fingers itching at the table as he tried to ignore his stomach's painful complaints. He really, really hated Bond right about now.

“Are you going to be okay to go into work,” Bond asked, looking down at Q, now concerned.

Q nodded, swallowing, and then rose slowly to his feet.

“No more force feedings, please,” Q nearly begged as he felt his stomach roll and jolt, but it decided that it was still fine where it was, and that made him at least a little happy.

He loathed being sick.

“It wouldn't be like this if you would just take care of yourself,” Bond argued, handing Q his parka and escorting him out the door, “A few solid meals and I won't need to look after you.”

Q continued walking and ignored Bond.

.

Eve smiled as she looked up and raised an eyebrow as Bond slunk into her office and sank gratefully into a chair.

“And so how was last night,” she asked with a smile, “Anything fun happen?”

“He has a lumpy couch and he couldn't even eat half a bow of oatmeal without being ill,” Bond replied with a sigh.

Eve frowned and leaned back in her own chair, fiddling nervously with a pen. 

“I didn't think it was that bad,” she finally said, chewing on the cap.

“That and worse, but at least he's fucking sleeping,” Bond frowned, “M may need to pull him, this may be beyond just a week or two of making sure he eats a little and remembers to sleep.”

“M can't pull him,” Eve sighed, “There's no one else that can replace him.”

“And if he keels over dead then that's an even bigger problem,” Bond snapped, flinging himself up from the chair and stomping out of the room.

.

Q stared down at the weapon prototype sitting in front of him on his desk. It wasn't as powerful as most guns the double-ohs used, but it was a nice little piece. Designed more for stealthy assassinations and to fit on a thigh holster beneath a dress. Female agents didn't have the advantage of jackets to hide things after all.

He traced down the barrel and then let his finger inch across the trigger. It wasn't a powerful gun, but it would get the job done. It would put a high speed projectile into flesh. He had even designed a few exploding rounds, just in case the smaller caliber bullet size wasn't enough to actually kill the mark with the first three hits. Three bullets exploding within the mark would do the job after that.

Oh look, he smiled, the exploding ammunition was right there. A full clip. And he did have to test it, after all, just to make sure. It wouldn't do to send an agent out into the field with faulty technology after all. People's lives depended on this.

“Load up a test dummy on the range,” Q called out to a passing intern, and then smiled at the clip.

The Q department had a never ending supply of ballistic gel dolls to test their little toys on. The death of the never living, a daily slaughter. And Q smiled as he walked down toward the range with a new gun and an entire clip of exploding bullets.


	8. Chapter 8

Bond stood in the shop and looked between the two prepackaged salads. They were the same to him, just a salad. Sure they weren't as nice as the ones that he could get at a nice restaurant, but he had a feeling that Q wouldn't eat more than a few bites of either anyway. Eve had told him of the doomed Cobb salad, so he sighed and went with the so called Asian inspired salad. He was sure Q could just not put the turkey like meat on the greens and eat it. He needed to eat iron rich foods anyway.

He put the Cobb salad down and then hesitated and picked it up again. More choice would probably be better. He glared at the plastic packed meals and sighed. He really wasn't cut out for this entire babysitting job. Eve would have been better, Eve would have known what to say and what to buy to get Q to eat, and then Bond could be happily in the field without having to worry about his quartermaster dropping dead on the other side of the comm.

.

Q almost giggled as the latest test dummy wobbled briefly after the bullet impact, and then had a chunk of gel go flying from its chest. This was his third clip of exploding bullets and it never ceased to be exciting to watch them blow up. A small crowd of interns had gathered to watched and cheered as the dummy met its grisly demise.

“We need to put a longer delay on the explosives,” Q said out loud, turning to look back at the gathered crowd. One of them would be taking notes, he didn't care as long as they ended up on his desk later, “And we need to test the bullets on the dummies with proper skeletons.”

A cheer went through the crowd at that. The gel dummies with skeletons also had blue blood reserves that were awesome and amazing to watch explode. It was just sad that he wouldn't be able to rig bullets with a time delay immediately because he would have fun seeing just how large an explosion he could cause. Or, as the blue blood always became, just how large a mess he could cause.

“And here I thought you were too young to be allowed to shoot,” a voice from the back of the crowd interrupted and everyone turned to look.

“Bond, to what do we owe the honor,” Q asked with a smile.

Nothing made him feel better than developing and testing new and exciting equipment. Though, judging by the grocery sack in Bond's hands it was a shame firing the gun hadn't stirred his appetite in the slightest. He sighed at the thought of yet another forced meal. 

“It's lunch time Q. Dismiss your little minions and come eat,” Bond smiled, his lips flexing into a grin as some of the interns giggled softly.

Q rolled his eyes and nodded, “Just let me secure the tech and then I'm all yours,” he promised.

The gathering sighed and began to trail out of the room, some to go eat some to get to work they had put aside to watch the test. He would have had words with them about falling behind but he knew the importance of a break now and again, and it helped create cohesion within the unit to have them all having fun actually seeing what all of their hard work had produced.

.

Q stared at the two salads sitting on the desk in front of him. And the kiwi, the two oranges, the six different kinds of apples, three different bananas, and the pineapple. And blinked. He stared intently at the pineapple, and then looked over at Bond with a raised eyebrow.

“Still mugging women with hats I see.”

Bond frowned, and then walked over, reaching for one of the apples.

“You need to eat Q,” he reminded the genius, “Keep your strength up and all that. Salads are healthy, as are fruit.”

“How on Earth did you think I was going to eat that pineapple,” Q asked, still amused.

Bond paused for a moment, and then looked away. Q slid down into his chair and nearly laughed, just staring over at the obscene fruit pile.

“I told you all before, I don't like meat on my vegetables 007,” Q chuckled, picking up the kiwi and tossing it gently from hand to hand, “And I have no clue what to do with that pineapple except blow it up. Was that your intention, Bond,” Q asked, “Did you want to see fruit die?”

Bond rolled his eyes, and then shoved the asian salad into Q's hands, ignoring the kiwi as it rolled away across the floor.

“You don't need to eat the meat, but at least half of this salad needs to be gone,” Bond snapped, “I'm sick of playing babysitter Q, I want a mission and I can't go on a mission until I trust my quartermaster to hold my back.”

The smile dropped from Q's face and he gently took the salad from Bond's hands and looked down at it. Odd, obviously artificially colored red fruits, wilting greens, sesame seeds, and chunky bits of fatty, gristly turkey. He hated meat on his salad, he wasn't fond of meat to begin with, but he could feel his gorge rising at the thought of eating the turkey. 

But he should eat the salad. His stupid reluctance was holding Bond back, he was doing actual harm to the country by refusing to eat a salad and preventing an agent from reentering the field. His hands trembled and he was just glad that there were no tears in his eyes.

“I'm sorry,” Q whispered faintly, his hands clenched tight around the plastic.

Bond cleared his throat nervously and looked around. Most of the lab had vacated for lunch, but there were a few stragglers on the far side of the room, pointedly ignoring the two of them. He really didn't know how to deal with the situation. He had thought it would be so easy, just place food in front of Q and tell him it was there and the rest would take care of itself. Clearly he was underestimating the situation.

“It's okay,” Bond finally said, “You can pick the chicken off.”

Q nodded slowly, and started unwrapping the salad with painful perfection.

“Why don't I get us something to drink, eh,” Bond finally said, breaking the silence, “Sugar and honey, right? I'll be right back.”

And, with that, the double-oh fled the room, leaving Q alone, staring at the salad with unblinking eyes, his fingers carefully and methodically removing the little bits of turkey from the nest of fading greenery.


	9. Chapter 9

Bond looked between the drinks in the cafeteria and wondered what god hated him now. He hadn't meant to snap at Q, he was just... annoyed. Whenever he was around Q seemed to withdraw into himself or lash out. But around the others he had seemed genuinely happy earlier. Him and his team cheering their frail leader on as one false human after another was destroyed.

Bond sighed and reached for the bottle of iced tea. Of course the cafeteria would be out of actual tea for the first time ever the one time he actually needed to get some.

“He won't drink that,” Moneypenny said, coming up from behind him, “No one sane drinks that. Just get him water.”

Bond snorted but returned the bottle to the shelf. He did agree with her, and was glad that at least someone was around to prevent him from making the matter even worse than it was.

“How's he doing,” Eve asked, grabbing a bottle of orange juice for herself.

“I seem to be making the situation worse,” Bond sighed, “I tried to bring him a light lunch and ended up yelling at him. At this rate he'll disappear into a shadow just to get away from me.”

“Have you tried being nice,” Eve asked, “I've heard that works wonders. Seduce him or something, you're good at that.”

Bond just glared at her, and then turned back to eying the nearly unending racks of water varieties. He glared at all the different clear bottles and wondered what exactly made it possible for there to be so many. It was just water!

“I seduce targets. Unless things have changed I haven't been given an order to change Q's status to target,” Bond pointed out, “Besides, a small breeze would break him in two. There's no fun in a partner that falls apart that easily.”

“James,” Eve paused, looking up at the agent, “You know the protocol for dangerously unstable assets. If Q doesn't start eating soon, isn't able to reliably function soon, he can be relabeled.”

Bond paused, two bottles of water in his hand. He hadn't thought the situation was that serious. Yes, not having Q functioning as a full quartermaster was an issue, but Bond had needed a brief break from the field and Q had been more than half an excuse to not look like he was ditching work again. And Q was someone he actually trusted to have his back, he had been worried when he had started getting noticeably frailer, and beyond concerned when he had actually passed out.

“M wouldn't do that,” Bond replied, avoiding looking toward Eve, “It's slow, but he is getting better. He ate some oatmeal this morning, and he's down in that damn lab of his eating a salad now.”

“Improvement is good,” Eve agreed, “Just make sure it sticks, Bond. Or we may have a new Q within the year.”

Bond sighed and nodded, and strolled sullenly out of the cafeteria. He didn't want a new quartermaster. He was sick of new handlers for every mission. Q was his quartermaster, and Q was the only handler he trusted to do his damn job properly and watch his back. Now he just had to return the favor.

.

Q had managed to sort half of the awful chicken cubes out of his salad before he sighed and just glared at the wilting meal. He wasn't really a salad sort of person. Salad was nice, yes, but he was particular about it. And a plastic container of dying, grocery store kept greenery wasn't exactly his idea of something edible in the first place. Even if he wasn't that hungry anymore.

Now he just felt guilty. His stomach tied in knots at the very idea of trying to force anything into his mouth to swallow, and he was fairly sure he wouldn't even keep tea down at this point.

“Sir,” one of his loyal minions approached the desk cautiously.

“Yes,” Q asked, looking up with a sigh. He could only pray for work to get him away from this situation.

“We adjusted the explosive timer on the bullets sir,” the minion said cautiously, looking nervously at the pineapple, “If you'd like to test them out.”

Q smiled, and then turned to look at the fruit that were still coating his desk and had a truly marvelous idea. It was only a shame that he didn't think the salad would work. Oh well, the needs of science always came first.

“Grab the fruit, we're doing a live test,” Q ordered, and smile childishly at the thought of an exploding pineapple.

.

Bond looked at the desk nonplussed. He had left Q here with orders to eat a salad. And possibly some fruit as well. Instead he found an empty chair, a salad with half the meat picked out, and a lone kiwi huddling next to the desk. No quartermaster, and no fruit. 

And then Bond growled. He knew where Q had got off to with the fruit portion of his lunch, and he was not amused. Especially not after the conversation he had just had with Moneypenny. It was a real fear, deep in his bones, that he may soon be losing yet another person in his life. And he was getting to the point where he didn't think he could handle much more of that.

He placed the water bottles down with a solid thud and marched toward the test firing range.

.

“And this, boys, is how we do things in Britain,” Q shouted with a giggle, took aim, and fired at the pineapple.

The pineapple proceeded to sway on the stand and then fall over when Q shot it two more times. Him and three other minions held their breath and watched as the pineapple fell, hit the floor with a solid thunk, and then roll toward them.

“Fuck,” Q's eyes went wide and everyone in the room turned to rush toward the door.

A door that was swung open at that moment by a very angry looking double-oh agent. Bond sidestepped as the minions rushed passed him, but stood blocking Q's way with an angry scowl. Q gulped and fidgeted with his hands nervously.

“Food is to be eaten, Q,” Bond growled, “Not played with! I went out and brought you that salad, which you still have not touched, and that fruit so that you could sit down and consume it! Goddammit Q, if you don't get your act together and start eating soon they really will have to section you!”

Q lowered his eyes and nodded. He knew, he knew that his issues were causing other issues at MI6. He was one of their youngest Quartermasters ever and there was just so much pressure riding on his shoulders. He was in charge of all technology at MI6, not just a few weapons that went out and never came back with agents.

And yet, here he was, acting like a nervous school boy. Hell, he was even getting dressed down like one. He knew it was his fault. But sometimes things just spun out of control, and now even he was fairly sure he was just a crashing plane with no hope.

“Come on, you're going to eat your damn lunch and then we're going home,” Bond snapped, grabbing Q's arm and hauling him toward the door.

The pineapple thunked loudly against the cheap plywood wall that technicians normally stood against, and exploded. Splinters and chunks of wood and pineapple went flying, aimed outward, and Q made a mental note to lower the explosive power of the actual bullets in the future. Obviously putting three into any target was overkill.

Bond fell back as the explosive went off, dragging Q with him, but not far enough. He shut his eyes tightly and started to drag the frail man into his arms to protect him as the remnant of the tables collided into Q's back and threw him forward, pushing Bond out of the room and out of the range of damage.

“Q,” Bond snapped at the explosions ceased, “Dammit Q, talk to me!”

Q groaned, and Bond frantically began pulling the ruined cardigan from his back only to find it pinned into place by a mass of wood and metal shards.

“Get medical down here, now!” Bond roared at the minions that had managed to escape.

“Bond,” Q rasped, stirring painfully.

“Keep quiet Q,” Bond replied, pulling off his own jacket and trying to staunch some of the bleeding, “Medical will be here soon.”

“Don't like pineapple,” Q moaned, “Stings.”

“I'll make a note of it,” Bond agreed, watching helplessly as the wounds bled through the jacket, “Dammit, where's medical!?”


	10. Chapter 10

“You were supposed to be watching him,” a voice shouted, “Not helping him kill himself!”

“How the bloody hell was I to know he was going to blow up a damn pineapple,” the return roared through the room and Q moaned, trying to roll over to hide from the noise.

“Dammit Bond, I assigned you to make sure he lived, not give him the tools to blow himself up,” and Q noted that it was M that was yelling. At Bond. Inside his room.

He frowned, and the blinked, wondering why on Earth M and Bond were in his bedroom in the first place, let alone shouting about... pineapple? He was obviously working too much, he decided, if he was starting to hallucinate things like that in his downtime.

He shifted and tried to sit up, and then very quickly decided that that was a very, very bad idea.

“Dammit Q,” Bond snapped, grabbing his arms and shoving him back on his front amongst the nest of blankets and pillows, “Lie still or you'll reopen your wounds.”

“Quit shouting,” Q moaned, trying to remember why his back felt like it was on fire, “Trying to sleep.”

“We'll be quiet, we promise,” Bond whispered, pulling the blanket up and tucking it in around his shoulders, “Just rest.”

Q snuffled and wondered why his blankets weren't his blankets, and the sheets didn't smell anything like his detergent, but decided that he was too tired to care and let himself drift off.

“I can assign Moneypenny to keep watch,” M sighed, “You go get some rest.”

“I'll be fine here, sir,” Q heard Bond respond before he finally drifted off to sleep again.

.

Q mumbled and mewed to himself as he felt a hand running gently through his hair, stroking it like his mother had used to when he was very, very young and sick. He missed the little things like this, the kindness of human contact that wasn't forced or angry. Just a warm hand running through his hair softly. He smiled softly and leaned into it ever so slightly.

And then it was gone and Q frowned, the world beginning to catch up with his mind, starting with the pain. He winced and hissed, his back burning, screaming at him, that everything was not alright. He groaned and blinked, huffing against the itchy pillow and letting his eyes wander around softly.

He couldn't see properly without his glasses, but the world wasn't so fuzzy that he couldn't recognize medical. All it took, really, was the scent of bleach and sanitizer for his brain to catch up, but he still preferred the visual identification of where he was as well.

“Where are my glasses,” he moaned, shifting and regretting it instantly.

There was no way he could properly use a computer like this. Not with his back a mass of agony.

“Here, hold on a moment,” a voice rasped from his bedside, and he turned his head to make out a blurry figure.

Bond appeared in his sight as he carefully placed Q's glasses in their proper place on his face, and Q frowned, squinting against the light. Bond looked terrible, his suit was wrinkled and his eyes had bags under them that Q was sure he could hide a small radio transmitter or two in. 

“Did you get hurt too,” Q asked, remembering the beyond amazing size of the explosion on the firing range.

“No,” Bond shook his head and leaned back in his chair, “You took the entire force, I'm sorry. I should have waited until after we left the range to lecture you. I should have wondered why you and your team were running from the room.”

“Not your fault,” Q sighed, shifting his vision to stare at the IV taped to the back of his wrist, “I shouldn't have tried to blow up the pineapple.”

Bond smiled grimly at that.

“I promise not to bring you anymore pineapple if you promise to keep yourself from turning into a pin cushion,” Bond agreed.

Q snorted and nodded, letting his cheek sink into the pillow and his glasses tilt oddly, the agent going from clear to half there, half a mass of fuzz. Sort of like a Picasso painting he thought happily to himself as he giggled. He also decided that, whatever medication he was on, he quite enjoyed it if this was the result.

“How bad was it,” Q finally asked, trying to resist the urge to stretch his back like a cat to help wake himself up.

Bond hesitated, looking down at his hands, and Q frowned. 

“You're on mandatory leave for a least a month,” Bond started, straightening his cuff, “Malnutrition, dehydration, underweight, low iron levels. Dammit Q,” his voice caught in his throat, “You almost didn't make it. You're putting your body under too much stress. A few inches deeper, a few inches closer to that damn explosion, and you wouldn't have made it.”

Q closed his eyes and sighed. 

“Bloody hell, don't you even care,” Bond snapped, shifting from chair to his feet in one smooth movement, “If you keep doing this, if you keep acting like this, M won't have to section you, you'll be dead! You're making your job even more dangerous than even mine is!”

“I'm sorry,” Q muttered, turning his head away from Bond and trying to hide beneath the blanket.

“No you're goddamn not,” Bond rasped, shoving a hand through his hair and staring down at the frail figure in the bed, “I'm going home. Eve should be here in a few minutes to look after you. Try not to kill yourself before she gets here.”

And, with that, Bond strolled out of the room and slammed the door soundly behind him. Q buried his face in the pillow, ignoring how it crushed his glasses against his face, and began to cry.

.

Eve glared at Bond, a stuffed bear wishing Q well held in one hand as she flexed her fist in the other and stared the agent down. Bond sighed, and looked away, staring at the wall and trying to not look guilty and failing miserably.

“You're supposed to help him,” she hissed, “Blaming him isn't going to be of any use James.”

“I know,” Bond acknowledged, rubbing at the back of his head and sighing, “He nearly died in my arms, Eve. I couldn't do anything! Just sat there and waited for medical, and he just doesn't care.”

The sound of the slap rang through the empty hallway.

“Fuck you Bond,” Eve hissed, “This is the first time he's woken up in a week! He's on so many different types of pain medication and antibiotics that it's a miracle he even remembers his own name, let alone what happened! If this is how you're going to act then I'll have M pull you and I'll bloody well take care of him properly.”

“No,” Bond snapped, looking up suddenly, “No, I can take care of him. I just... I just need to get some sleep. I promise.”

“See that you do that,” Eve nodded slowly, still glaring Bond down, “Go home and get some rest. Be back here in twelve hours.”

Bond nodded and began trudging slowly down the hallway.

“And 007,” Eve called after him, “If you can't, if you make things worse, I'll be more than happy to put a bullet in you again.”

James nodded, and started back on the weary trek to his cold apartment.


	11. Chapter 11

M sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was torn between hating his job and just setting the entire building on fire with everyone locked inside. It was the only solution he could see to the current crisis, and seemed to be the only sane one to dealing with anyone at MI6 at this point.

He looked back up at Moneypenny and sighed. 

“I thought I ordered him on medical leave,” M repeated himself, “He's supposed to be resting and healing. What do you mean he's going back on duty the day after tomorrow?”

“He was working on a project,” Moneypenny said, “And he's head of Q branch. They need him back by the day after tomorrow to keep things running smoothly.”

“He's not even cleared to leave medical, how are they going to have him working in his condition!?” M roared, “Make his second in command do it!”

“He doesn't have a second in command,” Eve replied, lifting an eyebrow, “He was second in command until the Silva incident. He hasn't had time to properly train anyone else.”

M groaned and desperately wished he could resurrect the dead just so he could kill them again. Then he could give the old M her job back and he could kill Silva for throwing so many wrenches into everything he could find.

“Try to find a way for him to do his work from medical,” M sighed, “And make sure the doctor knows what's going on, and that he's allowed to pull the plug on his work if he thinks it's medically necessary.

“And tell Bond to quit lurking around like a slighted school boy. Find him a mission or something, it's not like Q needs a babysitter while he's in medical. We have doctor for that, don't we?”

“Yes sir,” Moneypenny nodded and stepped out of the room, closing the doors securely behind her.

M looked over at the very well stocked liquor cabinet and then at his empty glass. He was tempted, he was very tempted, but he decided that he would most likely be needed sober at some point during the day, and he was already at least one glass away from safely saying he was that.

He really, really hated putting up with this job. And especially the unstable people that seemed to be employed by MI6 in the first place.

.

Bond turned the page in the book without reading a single printed word. He had read the book once when he was in school and had decided long ago that that once was more than enough. But 'Moby Dick' was a thick enough book that he could keep turning pages for hours before someone noticed he wasn't reading, and no one ever asked about the book either. It was a good tool in his occupation.

The figure on the bed shifted and then winced. Bond sighed, placing the bookmark carefully between pages and then walking over to the bed.

“Are you alright,” he asked, lifting and rearranging the blankets gently.

Q didn't answer him, his head turned away and stuffed in a pillow.

“Q, if you're in pain you need to let the doctor know so that he can give you more medication,” Bond said softly.

Q still didn't answer. 

Bond sighed and then tucked in the blankets against the cold and went back to his chair. The black mop of hair, wilting and sad, shifted to turn toward Bond and just stare at him. Bond just stared back into the angry eyes, and then shifted to looking at the book again.

He had tried to apologize about his earlier outbursts. But apologies weren't his thing and he had come off as cold and uncaring. Q had screamed at him, a tiny, wailing little voice that had bounced around the room, and Bond had refused to leave.

Q was his charge, his mission, and, most important of all, his quartermaster. There may be angry words between the two of them, and explosions and taunts and crying and screaming and blood and death, but Bond wouldn't abandon him. He was sick of leaving people behind, sick of watching them die. And so now he was sitting in a plastic chair watching an angry pair of eyes peek out from under a mop of unruly black hair and pretending to read a book that he wasn't sure if he could remember enjoying the first time.

The door opened and Bond nearly sighed in pleasure when he saw Eve step into the room.

“Q, Bond,” she nodded, and then Bond noticed the laptop in her hands and frowned.

“He's not cleared for work,” Bond pointed out, “He can't even put pressure on his back, let alone sit up straight.”

Q shifted and rolled toward Eve in an odd, unnatural way, his hands coming out from beneath the blankets and making grabbing motions. Eve smiled and held the laptop easily out of his reach.

“MI6 needs him Bond,” Eve pointed out, “He doesn't need to be able to sit up or do anything physically dangerous, he just needs to be able to use his laptop.”

“Eve,” Q whined, his voice hoarse.

“But,” Eve continued, ignoring Bond glaring at her, “If the doctor says stop you stop.”

“Promise,” Q replied, nodding and happily taking the laptop into his arms when she handed it over.

“Dammit Eve,” Bond hissed, glaring at her as he took a hold of her arm and dragged her out into the hallway, “He's still in massive amounts of pain. He can't even sit up it's so bad! And you expect him to just lay on his stomach and go back to work like nothing happened!?”

“It's the only way,” Eve growled back, “We need him. We can't replace him and we need him. The doctor will look after him and make sure he's not pressing himself to hard.”

“He's already pressing himself too hard,” Bond growled, looking back to the open door and listening to the sound of keys being pressed, “He's refusing pain medication.”

“The doctor said it was okay for him to wean himself off like that,” Eve reminded him.

“It's only been a week,” Bond pointed out, “This is too much, I'm going to M and stopping this insanity.”

Bond began to walk off in a huff, leaving Eve to glare at him in the empty hallway.

“Bond, M wants to see you,” she called out, “You have a mission.”

Bond stopped in his tracks and then turned to face her, his eyes murderous as he glared at her.

“My mission is to look after Q,” he pointed out.

“Not anymore,” she said, gazing back to the open door and making a note of the silence from within, “Others have that covered now.”

Bond whipped around and began stomping toward M's office, his face a mask of pure rage.

.

Eve gently closed the door behind her and slunk over to the chair beside the bed.

“Is everything you need on the laptop,” she asked, “Your little minions said everything should be, but we didn't know for sure.”

“Yes, everything's here,” Q whispered, his fingers still paused over the keyboard, “Where are you sending him?”

“Bond?” she asked, “Probably somewhere that requires a suit and a gun and has a high risk of exploding. The normal.”

Q hummed and nodded, still staring at the mass of code on the screen in front of him before sighing and laying down fully to stare at Eve.

“I promise to train a replacement when I get out,” he said quietly, “It'll be easier that way, so no one has to deal with a situation like this again.”

Eve stared at him, her eyes going wide as she placed a gentle hand over one of his.

“You'll always be worth a situation like this Q, always,” she promised, “No matter what anyone said, especially not Bond, you're worth it.”

Q nodded, but his eyes stayed dull as he turned back toward the laptop and began typing again. Eve blinked away tears and then counted to herself the number of ways she was going to kill James Bond when he got back from his mission.

.

M glared at Bond as the doors to his office burst open. He knew a temper tantrum from 007 was coming, but that didn't mean he had to like it, or let the agent off with just a scolding. 

“Dammit M,” Bond growled, “I refuse to go on a mission without Q as my quartermaster.”

“You don't get to pick and choose Bond,” M leaned back in his chair, “It doesn't work that way.”

The doors slammed shut again behind the agent and M resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Over dramatic as always, although he half suspected that it was at least helping run off Bond's temper a bit.

“I don't trust the others,” Bond snapped, his hands on the desk sending the paperwork M had been trying so hard to remain on top of flying.

“I don't care if you don't trust them,” M replied coolly, “I assign you a mission you take a mission. That's how it goes.”

“Then who is going to watch Q,” Bond demanded, “Who is going to make sure he's okay!?”

“Bond,” M said, “I'm sending you away on doctor's orders. And that is the end of it.”

“Doctor's orders,” Bond snapped, “I don't need a doctor to tell me to go off on some mission. I already have a mission here.”

“The doctor's orders were to keep you away from Q, Bond,” M said, leaning in toward the agent, “You're making the situation worse. You're driving him over the edge Bond.

“You're the one that's killing him.”

Bond stumbled back a step, his eyes going wide and shaking his head.

“We're sending you to Russia to clean up a bit of a mess. Report down to Q branch within the hour, they'll have everything you need. Dismissed.”

Bond's shoulders sunk as he turned to leave the room, his hand shaking on the door knob. M frowned, but didn't take his eyes off the suddenly defeated agent. 

“Tell him I'm sorry,” Bond said softly, his hand still on the door knob as he stared at the paneling of the door, “I didn't mean to.”

The door opened and shut quietly behind him, and M went back to organizing the paperwork on his desk with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to add, for the record, that I thoroughly enjoy 'Moby Dick' and have read it many, many times and highly suggest it to those who have not read it. Just so, you know, any fellow literature nerds don't go insane on me for disparaging such a fine piece of American writing.


	12. Chapter 12

Q took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His back still hurt and would be a mass of scar tissue for the rest of his life, but he had made remarkable progress in a month. As long as he was careful he could sit in chairs, he could walk, he could work. No more designated working hours and resting hours, no more fighting the pain medication just to stay awake. 

He could finally, happily, return to being just Q again. Master of his domain. Necessary cog in the workings of MI6.

Eve hesitated beside him and he looked over and groaned. The one thing he hadn't been able to shake was his ever present new babysitter. If he flinched she was there, if he was grumpy she was there, if he so much as even sighed unevenly she was there. Always there, always mothering, always driving him up the wall with good intentions.

“I'm fine,” Q said, turning back toward the door, “You don't need to hang on anymore Eve. It's just work. I even promise to stop for a lunch break. A full hour. And then work. No guns, no explosives. I promise.”

“Are you sure,” Eve asked with worried eyes, “You can keep working from home if you don't think you can deal with a full day in the lab. M wouldn't mind.”

“Dammit Eve,” Q snapped, the last of his patience finally dead, “It was a bloody accident. I'm healed, I'm better. I don't need you holding my hand like a child every time I even so much as blink!”

Eve patted him on the shoulder softly and nodded and Q just glared at her. He had been snappish for the last week, but instead of lashing out at him she had just taken it. And now Q felt guilty again for being rude. He knew she was just doing her best to get him to his best, but he was just so sick of it. He was sick of being assigned watchers and sitters and having his each and ever move analyzed by everyone.

“I'll be back down for lunch at 11:30,” she smiled, “Call me if you need anything.”

Q nodded, and walked into the lab, his head held high and his laptop under his arm. He was happy to finally be back in his domain.

.

Bond shivered and glared at the cell phone screen. He was stuck in Russia during one of the worst winters in modern history and he couldn't even get a bloody signal. He cursed and pulled his coat tighter around himself, suddenly wishing that he had another three layers of wool to put on.

A single bar appeared and he smiled, quickly dialing a number and putting it up to his ear.

“This is beginning to get a little pathetic Bond,” Moneypenny sighed on the other end.

“I just want to check how he's doing,” Bond replied, glancing out his window, “Because there's certainly nothing going on over here that I need to watch.”

“Well then, you'll be happy to know that M is bringing you home tomorrow if all goes well.”

“I thought his first day back wasn't until next week,” Bond frowned, counting off the days in his head, “He's not rushing him to work is he?”

“He's healing faster that originally thought,” Eve replied happily, “So, as long as he takes it carefully, he's back on full duty. He even promises to have a second trained within the month.”

“And he's eating?”

“Small meals, the pain killers are still messing with him, but he's doing better.”

“Good,” Bond sighed, leaning back, “Tell me when my exile is over and I'll be on the first plane back.”

“We look forward to you terrorizing the office,” Bond could hear Eve's smirk from over the poor reception before she hung up.

.

Q smiled at Cecilia. She was ten years older than him at least, and had been at MI6 for a number of years beyond that. Why she had been passed up as second Q wasn't sure; she was bright, imaginative, and perfect for his replacement. And although her doe eyes were getting on his nerves, she was picking up everything he was showing her much faster than he had thought.

How he had not noticed that she was the perfect second in command before was just another clear example to him about just how incompetent he was. He should have trained a second immediately, his quick promotion was a glaring example at just how uncertain lives were at MI6, even those who thought they were safe. 

“Would you like some strawberries,” he asked with a smile, pulling out the small snack box he had packed to go with his lunch.

“Thank you,” Cecilia giggled, and began munching on the sweet fruit as Q continued to teach her.

Q nodded as she asked another question, and hummed thoughtfully over something even he hadn't thought of. And he kept pulling out more and more snacks for her to eat. Some rice with chopsticks and pickled plums, little potato and fish cakes, sliced kiwi, pickled cucumbers. Soon the little black boxes of food were diminished, and Q was putting them away with a smile.

It was so easy, really. He didn't know how he had missed the trick before. Another mistake on his record, a tally in his book against his genius. He knew Eve would find out if he merely dumped his lunch in the trash. But if someone else ate it? She would never know. It had been eaten, technically. Just not by him.

The food wouldn't sit well anyway, it would just make him sick. He would keep thinking and remembering why he was back at MI6 in the first place; to train a replacement. That was the last of his usefulness to the organization. He was too far gone for them to save, so he would make sure they would have everything they need, and then he simply wouldn't be anymore.

Q made a mental note to introduce Cecilia to Bond personally to help smooth the transition over. He would like her. He liked all women with curves and smiles and eyes. But, better yet, she would be a better fit for the agent. She wouldn't mess up like he had, she would get along with everyone without everyone needing to watch and babysit her every move.

“It's getting toward lunch,” Cecilia pointed out with a smile.

Q laughed and nodded, looking at his clock.

“Be back here in an hour and I'll go over the internal systems with you.”

She smiled and nodded, and Q picked up his mug. His tea had long gone cold but he didn't mind. There was nothing wrong with a bit of cool tea from time to time. He found that he was beginning to like the taste better than hot tea.

.

Eve smiled at Q as he walked in with his ever present mug and sat down. And then she glared at him, looking for the lunch she had watched him pack that morning and finding no sign of it.

“Q, you still need to eat regularly,” Eve pointed out.

Q held up a hand and smiled, “I already ate Eve, lunch was nibbled on and eaten all morning. It's easier than trying to eat it all at once.”

Eve raised an eyebrow, but nodded. Even a month out he was still on pain medication, and it was interfering with his stomach. The doctor had told her it would probably be easier for him to nibble on snacks than actually eat an entire meal, so she nodded. It was good, she finally decided, to see that he was actually taking steps for his own health for once.

“Well I didn't have the chance to nibble on lunch all morning,” she declared, pulling out the lunch that Q had also packed for her.

It was plain and simple, but she found she enjoyed it more than she thought she would. It was certainly healthier for her than a bacon sandwich.

“I think Bond is going to like Cecilia,” Q finally said as she was munching on rice, taking a sip out of his mug, “Or, at least, he may at least be nice to her after he beds her.”

Eve snorted at that.

“You're feeding her to a shark if you're putting her against Bond any time soon.”

“I think she'll hold her own quite well,” Q smiled, “Much better than I ever have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word of warning: updates may get a little slower. I hadn't realized that I was going to be getting 100+ pages of assigned reading a week in my literature class. So, well, yeah. School takes precedence over fanfiction sadly.
> 
> And, for those curious, the recipe for the little potato fish cakes (I pack them in my lunch fairly frequently, they're pretty good cold): One medium potato mashed, one can of tuna, one egg. Mix. Add seasonings and vegetables to taste. In a skillet on medium heat heat some vegetable oil. Form the potato/tuna/egg mixture into little cakes of desired size (big ones if you're just going to eat them, small ones if they're going in a bento box), and fry in the skillet on each side until brown. Eat. They're very delicious. They keep a few days in the fridge as well.


	13. Chapter 13

Bond stalked into headquarters with a glare in his eye. People were wise to step out of his way, a habit most people in MI6 had with 007, or any double-oh, to begin with, but on this day he looked particularly quick to anger.

Moneypenny looked up when her doors were flung open, nonplussed by the interruption to her work. Despite what the majority seemed to think, actually working directly below M meant that there was more paperwork than any other job in the building. Her duties with Q were merely piled on top.

“M,” Bond growled, “Now.”

“He's not even here Bond,” Eve sighed, looking back at her screen, “He does have actual work to do as well.”

Bond just glared at her, but she returned the glare easily enough. Most people forgot that she had actually been in the field quite a bit before her little incident with shooting Bond had come up. A glare from a double-oh was nothing but a pouty child to her.

His gaze wandered around the room for a moment, taking in the ridiculously British decoration, and then he stormed back towards the doors.

“He's doing much better,” Eve called out just as he was leaving, “He's eating and sleeping and everything. Just in case you're wondering.”

Bond hesitated, his hand pausing on the doorknob, and then he left the room and slammed the doors shut behind him again. Eve just smirked as she watched him go right instead of left, deeper into the bowels of MI6. It was good to know that, even after all this time, she could still read people as easy as a book. 

She even felt a bit sorry for Q. Having a double-oh chasing after you was never a pleasant time, but, as she thought on it for a moment, it would do him good. Bond may not be the most stable person in the country, but he was vicious in his love. He just needed to figure out what was going through his head and let it settle. Then Q would have a devoted someone to rest upon, and Bond would have someone he could trust for more than five minutes, and MI6 would have at least a few more stable days.

Eve snorted and went back to her work. The world never fixed itself that readily that easily. If she had money to bet she would place it on at least three more life threatening situations and explosions before either Q or Bond came to their senses.

.

Q looked up from where he was ushering Cecilia through the complicated system that made up part of MI6's electronic defenses, glaring at the doors as they slammed against the wall. Cecilia blushed as she looked away, Bond glaring at her and Q both, and Q rolled his eyes.

“You have everything in hand,” he asked, and Cecilia nodded.

“Yeah, this is a piece of cake. You go deal with the tiger and I'll hold down the fort,” she promised with a grin.

Q nodded and straightened, his back cracking and groaning after being hunched over a desk for so long. Bond just continued to glare at him from across the room, looking him up and down.

“You're scaring my minions Bond,” Q hissed, standing directly in front of the agent and glaring up, “What do you want?”

Bond reached out and snatched Q's arm, dragging him from the room and ignoring the boffin's protests. Q stumbled on after, keeping up with the steady pace, and rolling his eyes at the interns that looked on questioningly. It wouldn't be the first time a double-oh kidnapped a technician, though usually it was to discuss top secret plans that others were not to overhear.

Q had the feeling that him and Bond were not going to be discussing wire transfers and how to secure data properly.

Bond dragged him to the side stairwell, looking around before shoving him in and then bolting the door after the two of them.

“Dammit Bond,” Q snapped, rubbing his sore wrist once he got it free, “What form of paranoia have you got biting at you now!?”

Bond, still glaring and Q was beginning to think that the look was permanently tattooed on his face, reached out and grabbed Q's wrist again, pulling down his sleeve and turning furious.

“I left you here because they said it would be better if someone else took care of you,” Bond snapped, his fingers tracing the bones of Q's arm, “But I come back to find you skinnier than ever. Are you even eating at all!?”

“The pain medication makes me sick to my stomach,” Q defended, pulling uselessly at his arm, “Besides, I'm eating enough to keep working. If anything goes wrong Cecilia can replace me.”

“Cecilia,” Bond asked, raising an eyebrow but still refusing to release Q's arm, “The blond I take it?”

“She's my second,” Q defended, “You'll like her, though I would appreciate it if you tried to stay out of her pants.”

Bond just glared down at Q, and then, as if bidden by some unheard signal, pulled Q into his arms and picked him up easily.

“Oi,” Q shouted, struggling uselessly as Bond walked back into the hallway, “I have work to get to Bond!”

“You're sick,” Bond replied simply, “And you're not taking care of yourself, and Moneypenny is obviously not doing the job properly. So you're coming home with me until such time as you aren't about to die from starvation.”

“Dammit Bond,” Q hissed, glaring at the passersby in MI6 who were refusing to help, “I am not one of your girls. I don't need a shagging and I don't need saving!”

“Yes, you do,” Bond replied and kept walking.

.

Moneypenny sighed and looked up as Tanner bolted into the room.

“Yes, he's back,” Eve said, “And yes he went down to Q branch.”

“And now he's kidnapping Q,” snapped Tanner, and Eve frowned and pulled up the building video feeds.

“It's kind of cute,” Eve shrugged, struggling not to giggle, “Q kind of looks like a pissy kitten really.”

“Dammit Eve, Bond is kidnapping the Quartermaster, isn't there a protocol in place to stop this?”

Eve just laughed in Tanner's face, leaning back and smiling.

“Tanner, Bond is devoted to Q,” she explained, “He doesn't know it yet. Q needs to see that someone cares about him, and Bond is easily the greatest example.”

“You make this sound like a bad teenage romance,” Tanner snapped, “This isn't going to be solved by some creep watching him sleep at night!”

“No,” Eve sighed, “But it isn't being solved by me watching him like a hawk and him still fading away. Medical wants to section him. What do you think Bond would do then?”

“Blow up the entire bloody building to get him out,” Tanner sighed, collapsing back into the spare visitor chair, “Was this your plan all along?”

Eve shrugged, “Sadly no. The plan was to have Q healthy, and then wait for one of the idiots to make the first move, maybe even lock them in a closet. But if Bond will watch Q like a hawk and make him healthy then all the better. Because, as it is, his second can cover for him, but she can't replace him.”

“I'm working in a school,” Tanner groaned, rubbing his face with his hands.

Eve chuckled but didn't bother to reply, sending a message to security to allow Bond and his squirming package an exit from the building without question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes yes, a bit slow I know. But chess pieces have to move around the board before they can do anything interesting.


	14. Chapter 14

Q glared across the kitchen table at Bond. He had been manhandled out of MI6 and into a car, across London proper, and then carried through doors, up stairs, and sat carefully in a fairly comfortable chair and then had a steaming bowl of stew placed in front of him.

It actually smelled delicious, but that didn't change the facts in Q's mind; in his view he had been kidnapped. And he had no intention of eating food provided to him by a kidnapper. Even if he did happen to know his kidnapper, and know that his place of work had allowed him to be kidnapped and would do nothing to rescue him at this point.

“It's vegetarian, if that's what's bothering you,” Bond finally said, staring at Q from across the table.

Q didn't respond, though he did shove the bowl away from himself. Bond shoved the bowl back without taking his eyes off of the frail man. The two were at an impasse, and Q could only sniff and look away. The apartment, he had to admit, was tastefully decorated. It was fairly spartan, but the couch looked clean and comfortable if a little worn, and the small kitchen looked well stocked. There were even bananas in little metal wire bowls hanging from beneath a cupboard.

“Q, please,” Bond broke the silence again, “A few bites, that's all I'm asking. Then you can go back to having a snit.”

“How do I know this isn't laced with poison,” Q demanded, “You could be trying to kill me in revenge for Russia.”

“Russia already tried to kill me in revenge for being there,” Bond smirked, pulling the bowl toward himself and eating three spoonfuls, “Satisfied?”

Q shook his head, his dull hair swaying with the force. Bond frowned, and then sighed, getting up slowly and walking around the table to the quartermaster. He picked up the limp man, Q had long since stopped squawking and struggling when he realized it was getting him nowhere, and placed him on his lap as he sat down at the table. He held Q in place with one arm, and then pulled the bowl over with his free hand and picked up a heaping spoonful of stew and raised it gently to his own mouth, blowing on it, and then raised it to Q's mouth.

Q sniffed and turned his face away from the spoon.

“Q, don't make me strap you down and force feed you,” Bond growled.

“You wouldn't dare,” Q snapped, and then found the spoon shoved forcefully into his mouth.

“Chew and swallow,” Bond commanded.

Q pouted but obeyed, tears shining in his eyes as his mouth moved carefully over the potato pieces and bits of barley and corn. Bond sighed and put the spoon back in the bowl and rubbed the man's back soothingly, watching carefully as Q continued to chew, and then finally swallowed.

“There, that wasn't so bad was it?” Bond asked, his fingers tracing gently along Q's cheek as he turned him to face himself, “I wouldn't have to do this if you would just eat, you know?”

Q nodded, turning away and staring down at the bowl of stew still sitting in front of him. Bond combed his hand gently through Q's unruly hair, his fingers tickling at his scalp, and then kissed Q gently behind his ear.

“You're the last one left that I can truly trust,” Bond whispered, “I can't lose you. Not you too. Please, you have to eat.”

Q nodded solemnly, hearing the tears in Bond's voice, the pure, unrestrained begging. He stared down at the bowl, feeling Bonds arm around his chest holding him tight and Bond's lips at the back of his neck, kissing slowly downward, and took the spoon into his own hand.

It was the least he could do, he figured, for Queen and country. Bond had admitted his weakness, and Q had read his file. A broken man begging, that's what he had turned 007 into, and it made him sick to think of. But if it would help, he decided, he could force down a few mouthfuls.

“I can't east much,” Q whispered, “It makes me sick.”

Bond nodded, still nuzzling at him like a sad little kitten.

“As much as you can,” Bond replied, “It's a step.”

Q took in a deep breath, and picked up the spoon. He stared at the stew for a few seconds, and then closed his eyes tight as he shoved it in his mouth. It was too hot by far, scalding the roof of his mouth, but he chewed obediently and swallowed. Twenty minutes later he could feel sweat prickling at the edge of his hairline, but he had managed to consume nearly half the bowl. He could feel it weighing down his stomach and churning unpleasantly, but it stayed down. 

Bond huffed and smiled, pulling Q against his chest as he leaned back, and Q curled up on his lap. His entire body felt like it was trying to tear itself apart and he simply didn't feel good.

“It's okay,” Bond whispered, rubbing his hand up and down Q's back, “You did good. You did good. A little more of this and you'll be good. Then we can both work again.”

Q sniffled and nodded, curling in on himself and trying to keep the tears at bay. He had forgotten that Russia hadn't been a mission for Bond as much a way to get him out of everyone's hair. Bond would care for him until he was healthy enough to run missions, and then he would leave him. Because Bond was Bond, and he stayed for nothing if it wasn't useful to him.

.

M groaned and leaned back in the chair as he stared at anything else but Tanner and Moneypenny.

“What do you mean you just let Bond walk out of here with Q,” M finally demanded, glaring at the two of them, “I put out strict orders not to let Bond anywhere near Q, and you let him kidnap him!?”

“It's for the best sir,” Moneypenny replied, “I've been giving Bond pointers, he should be able to shape Q up and put him in working order.”

“Dammit Moneypenny,” M snapped, “That was half the problem in the first place!”

M could see the beads of sweat forming on Tanner's brow and sneered. Of course Tanner had bowed out to Moneypenny, he always did. A habit that M wish he could break him of.

“Sir, as soon as Q sees...”

“As soon as Bond has Q thinking he's a damn tool again like last time,” M roared, “As soon as Q thinks he's going to be retired if he doesn't shape up in some insanely small time frame!? Dammit Moneypenny, the way Bond goes about this Q is going to be catatonic within the week.”

“So we send in a rescue squad and declare 007 a traitor,” Moneypenny yelled back, “Is that your solution!?”

M glared at her, and drummed his fingers on the chair of his seat. The problem was was that Bond had been actively seen hauling Q out of MI6 and no one had done a damn thing to stop him. It was as good as making a public announcement that the head of MI6 approved of Bond's tactics, and any attempt to say otherwise now would look like he was waffling. Q wasn't the only new head that was being questioned constantly, and M couldn't afford to look weak.

“Is Cecilia able to run Q branch without Q for at least two weeks?” M finally asked, looking to Tanner.

The man may bow out at the sight of a fight, but he knew how to judge what was going on readily enough.

Tanned nodded, “She's up to speed on everything. Q did a fairly thorough job in training her.”

M sighed and nodded, and then glared at Moneypenny, “Bond gets two weeks. But I want Q to start seeing a psychologist immediately upon his return. And you'd better pray that Bond doesn't make things worse or I'll retire the both of you.”

Moneypenny stood up straighter, adjusting the hem of her blouse, and nodded.

“Dismissed. Get the fuck out of my sight the both of you.”

.

The tv whispered merrily away, turned to some obnoxious drama Q had never even heard of, and he drowsed lazily on the couch, his mind shifting between awake and asleep without a care. Bond had wrapped a blanket around him when he had sat down, claiming that he was far too small not to freeze to death even in a heated room, and Q had been powerless to resist. So he had simply obeyed and lay down, his head in Bond's lap, Bond's hand in his hair, massaging his scalp.

“This show is rubbish,” Bond chuckled, bringing Q back to reality for the umpteenth time, “I don't know why you watch such things.”

“Don't,” Q muttered sleepily, blinking awake as he tried to figure out just exact what was on the screen. 

Even after his eyes focused, his glasses crooked and smashed against his face, he had no clue what it was. But, then again, his life left very little time for watching television shows so it was unsurprising that he didn't recognize it. 

“Come on, up with you,” Bond sighed with a smile, taking Q, blanket and all, into his arms, “It's time for bed.”

Q nodded and yawned, not caring as Bond carried him into a bedroom and sat him down on a bed. The bed was far larger than the one in his own flat, but he was busy paying attention to Bond as the agent pulled a set of thick red flannel pajamas out of a dresser and placed them on his lap. He looked up, still sleepy and dazed, and blinked curiously at Bond.

“I asked Eve,” he explained with a smile, “She said it helped with the cold. Now get changed while I set the security.”

Q nodded and watched as Bond closed the bedroom door behind him, still blinking. He hadn't expected Bond to actually have pajamas in his flat at all, he seemed more a nothing sort of man. Though, Q smiled as he petted the soft fabric in his lap, it was nice that he had remembered. Or at least remembered to ask. It was always so cold at night, even under a pile of blankets.

Two minutes later had Q's clothes folded neatly and placed on top of the dresser while he was snuggled in his warm pajamas under the blankets, his mind already began to drift. The sound of the door opening and Bond stepping in surprised him, and he frowned. He didn't need a double-oh to check to make sure he had managed to get to bed at night.

“Hope you don't hog the blankets,” Bond chuckled, slipping in under the blankets beside Q, and the quartermaster froze.

Bond's arms were bare as he grasped Q and pulled him close, nearly hugging him against his chest like a stuffed animal, and Q's eyes went wide. Of course, he had forgotten to count the doors. There was only one bedroom in the flat, and there was no way Bond was going to sleep on the couch in his own abode.

“I can take the couch,” Q mumbled, struggling weakly against Bond's arms.

“You'll do no such thing,” Bond muttered, pulling Q closer, “Can't have you wandering around at night making a nuisance of yourself.”

Q winced and sighed. Of course. Bond was trying to keep him out of trouble. Q shrunk smaller in the agent's arms, tears prickling at his eyes. He was nothing but trouble to everyone it seemed. 

“Go to sleep, I'll make waffles for breakfast,” Bond said sleepily, and drifted off shortly after that.

Q stared at the wall in front of him half the night, his eyes blurry, afraid to move. He didn't want to wake Bond up. He didn't want to inconvenience him any further.


	15. Chapter 15

It was sunny in the room when Q yawned and opened his eyes, blinking curiously at what had woken him. He started momentarily at the sight of Bond's face close to his, and then the previous day came back to him and he sighed. Of course he had been traded from Moneypenny to Bond by MI6. Too much trouble to do anything but be passed around like a potato now that he had trained Cecilia to take his place.

“Rise and shine. You have enough time to take a shower before waffles are ready,” Bond smiled, handing Q his glasses and leaving the room.

Q resisted the urge to make a rude comment and snuggle back under the mound of blankets that was covering him. He was an adult, he told himself, not a five year old child to be pulled out of bed wailing and screaming.

He stumbled into the bathroom, ignoring the overly gilded decor, and sighed happily as the warm water came on instantly in the shower. Q knew he was in a picky mood but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had been dragged from his work and shut in a flat with a double-oh agent, being force fed, but at least there was hot water in the shower. Not that he doubted that there would be, Bond was anything but a slave to the little luxuries in life.

Q hissed as the water hit the mass of still healing scar tissue on his back, ignoring the piercing, throbbing pain. He kept telling himself that he had earned each and every pucker and line, that it was his penance. It was his mistake that had led to the explosion, his ineptitude, his faults.

Ten minutes later found him washed and standing in front of the mirror, his hair limp around his face, his eyes sunk in, and he looked away guiltily. It wasn't healthy. He knew it wasn't healthy, and yet there he stood, counting his ribs sadly and trying not to scream. 

His knees hit the floor hard as he collapsed, his vision swimming in the heat of the room, and he curled up in a ball, tears streaming down his face. He didn't want to be there, he didn't want to be a genius or involved with MI6 or even know how a computer operated. He just wanted to fade away into the background, another faceless person on the streets of London day in and day out.

But he didn't have that option. All he had was the fact that he was young and brilliant and his mind was flexible and one of the top double-oh agents in MI6 had chosen him as the one to trust. And so he lay there, his lungs heaving for air as he sobbed, knowing that the instant Bond moved on that MI6 would move on, and he would spend the rest of his short life sedated in a cell in some far off hospital. Even his gravestone would be blank and nameless.

A knock came at the door, but Q couldn't bring himself to move or care.

“Q,” Bond's voice called out, “Waffles are ready. With strawberries.”

Q didn't answer, pulling his knees up to his face and hiding behind them. He hated strawberries.

“Q,” Bond's voice sounded strained, “Are you alright?”

Q shook his head silently, but knew no matter what he said it wouldn't matter. His life wasn't his, he had signed it away all those years ago as a foolish youth. Nothing belonged to him, he was just a tool, a cog in the machine. He belonged to MI6, and Moneypenny, and Bond. But not himself, never himself. All he wanted now was to remember what his mother had used to call him when she tucked him in at night, but all he could hear was a letter. 

“Moment,” Q finally gasped, his voice wavering and weak as it echoed around the room. 

That seemed to please Bond, or, at least, give him a few moments to collect himself. He could just imagine Bond sighing at the sight of the young quartermaster curled up on the floor, and then phoning MI6 and asking for him to be taken off his hands. Shoved away into darkness, forgotten completely. No one would come for him. No one would miss him.

Q held his breath as he lifted himself off the floor and reached for a towel. It hurt to move, to even think, and he knew there would be no remedy for him. He couldn't escape himself afterall.

.

“Strawberries,” Bond said happily, placing a plate on the table in front of Q, “Your favorite, just like I promised.”

Q stared numbly down at the food, Bond ruffling his hair and kissing the crown of his head, and picked up the fork slowly. There was honey and whipped cream as well, but the chunks of fresh strawberries swimming in a red sauce, the fruit maimed and slaughtered, caused his gorge to rise. He swallowed, and then took pin prick of whipped cream onto his fork and brought it to his mouth.

“Q,” Bond sighed, watching him with interest, “You need to actually eat the meal, not just poke at it. I went through a lot of hard work to cook these for you.”

Q nodded miserably, knowing already that he would end up forcing at least half of the meal down his throat without tasting a single bite of it. It would rest heavy in his stomach and he would spend the rest of the day trying to keep it down. Mind over matter, he would tell himself, and imagine that the waffles were nothing more than a nightmare. Mind over matter.

Bond collected the spindly boffin into his arms and, much as he had the night before, began to carefully cut up the meal and feed it to Q bite by bite. Q opened his mouth mechanically and took in the food, chewing enough times so as not to choke, and swallowing. Bond smiled and rewarded Q with little kisses behind his ear and down his neck.

“That's it,” Bond muttered, “Just a few bites more. That's good, that's good.”

Q nodded mutely, tears shining in his eyes but he refused to let them fall. He refused to be that weak in front of Bond, to give up just how hard this was for him.

“With a little time you'll be back in perfect condition,” Bond reassured him, “MI6 won't know what hit them.”

Q continued to chew and nodded. He would be returned to the organization once they declared him fit. Bond would look after him, and Moneypenny when he was away on missions. Every bite would be recorded, every word noted. He would be their little doll. Always there for them to play with, always there for him to be forgotten.

The strawberry burst as Bond sliced roughly through it with the side of his fork and Q whimpered, curling up in a ball on Bond's lap. The fork was dropped suddenly and Bond wrapped his arms securely around him.

“Hey, it's okay,” Bond reassured him, rubbing his back and rocking him as he whispered softly, “It's all going to be alright.”

Q shut his eyes tightly and realized that, no matter what anyone did, it was never going to be alright again.


	16. Chapter 16

Lips traced down his chest, a tongue lapping at a nipple as nimble fingers played with another one. Q gasped, his eye shut tight as he felt the second hand tracing past his belly button with whisper soft motions. His hands clasped at Bond's chest, scrambling across taught muscles, nails scratching across tanned flesh.

“Scream for me,” Bond whispered, his voice a dark and husky thing in the night, “Scream my name, Q.”

Q moaned and whimpered, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and leaning back as Bond slowly trailed kisses down his chest, licking and nipping at his sensitive flesh. Bond smirked, his lips tracing his belly button slowly, his tongue flickering against it, and Q bit down harder, a drop of blood slipping down his chin.

“I can't hear you,” Bond growled, his throat rumbling against Q's skin.

Q shook his head noiselessly, his body shaking and muscles standing on end. He could feel fingers trailing up the inside of his thigh and he could feel his brain beginning to shut down in pleasure. It scared him, this feeling, this absolute and complete loss of control, but he had to do it he told himself mentally. This made Bond happy. Bond happy made MI6 happy. A happy Bond was more efficient in the field and worked harder to protect Queen and country. Anything that made Bond happy was important, and it was his duty as a tool of MI6 to make sure Bond was happy.

He gasped as Bond kissed the head of his penis.

Bond being happy was important, he repeated to himself, his vision going white as he came. Bond happy was the most important thing.

“You're beautiful,” Bond whispered as he collapsed, taking Q into his arms and quickly falling asleep.

It was his duty as a tool of MI6, Q kept telling himself as he stared at the wall, and that was all that was important.

Q drifted off to sleep shortly after that, ignoring the warm weight of Bond's arm over his chest and the pressing tangle of Bond's legs over his own. It was an important day tomorrow, he was returning to work. He hoped that MI6 would see how happy Bond was and agree that Q had done a very good job being good for Bond over the last two weeks. And then they wouldn't send him away.

At least not until Bond got bored of him and switched him out for a new flavor. Bond always ran toward something new and fresh the first chance he got. But Q was sure that MI6 knew that, and wouldn't blame him. He was trying so very, very hard.

.

Q sat at the kitchen table with a small smile on his face, the left side slightly higher than the right, like a smirk. Bond preferred the slight smirk to a symmetrical smile Q had noticed, and so he made sure to lift the left side of his smile slightly. It made Bond happier, and that's what was important.

“Now remember,” Bond said, placing a bowl of oatmeal in front of Q and kissing him on the top of his head, “I'll be by at eleven thirty to pick you up for lunch. You're doing a lot better, but you still need to eat at regular times.”

Q nodded, blowing gently on a spoonful of the overly sugared concoction that Bond called oatmeal, and ate it carefully. It was still too hot, too thick, and too much for Q's stomach. But he knew Bond wouldn't let him leave the table until he had eaten at least a three quarters of the bowl so he persisted, telling his stomach that no matter how it complained more would be coming down shortly. Bond was so happy about Q returning to work that Q couldn't let himself be sick.

Bond wanted missions. If Q wasn't at work Bond wouldn't get missions. It was Q's job to make sure Bond was happy, Q kept telling himself, and Bond wouldn't be happy until he had proper missions again.

“Are you sure you're okay with this,” Bond asked hesitantly, eying Q carefully, “I can always ask M for more time if you need it.”

“I'll be fine,” Q smiled, reminding himself to lift the left corner of his mouth, “For Queen and country.”

Bond nodded, smiling wanly, and went about eating his own breakfast. He ignored the pained smiled on Q's face and the dull sheen in Q's eyes. He was looking forward to being back out in the field with Q's voice in his ear and a gun in his hands.

Q reminded himself, yet again, that it was all for the good of MI6, and tried not to vomit.

.

Dr Lerner had been a psychologist for MI6 for nearly forty years. He had seen a lot of mental trauma in his career, but looking at the current resident quartermaster just broke his heart. Other agents had sadly earned their mental scars, they had known going in what would happen to them. But Q? Q had done nothing more than buckle, and then MI6 had loaded stones onto his chest and buried him alive.

“You're eating regular meals again then,” Lerner asked, looking down at his notes.

At least Q's weight had graduated back into a healthy category.

“Yes sir,” Q answered with a smile.

“And how was your time with Bond,” Lerner asked, leaning back in his chair and looking at the young man sitting carefully before him.

He could see his tense hands in his lap, placed ever so precisely, and the twinge surrounding his smile. His expression was forced, a common occurrence with all MI6 workers Lerner was sad to admit, but Q was beyond forcing himself. He looked desperate, his eyes shining and far too wide. Lerner sighed and made a brief note of it.

“Bond was very happy,” Q started, and Lerner looked up slowly, “He is well rested and I made sure he enjoyed his time off greatly.”

“Q,” Lerner started, pausing as his mind tumbled over the questions he wanted to ask.

“I promise,” Q started again, his voice rising in pitch, “I did everything I could. I promise. Don't send me away, I don't want to be left alone, I don't want to be retired.”

Lerner started as tears started streaming down Q's face and he realized just how far down the rabbit hole Q had fallen. He cursed mentally but made no sudden moves, afraid to frighten Q any further. The distraught boffin hiccuped, and rubbed his sleeves over his face, knocking his glasses askew.

“Q, you did fine,” Lerner said, his voice low and calm, “You did everything you were supposed to. You did nothing wrong.”

Q sniffled and looked up, his eyes still wide, “You promise?”

“Yes Q, I promise,” Lerner sighed sadly, “You did nothing wrong. Why don't you return to work now, I know Q-Branch has missed you greatly.”

“Thank you doctor,” Q smiled, and Lerner was glad to see a real smile on his face.

“You're welcome Q.”

Lerner watched the young man close the door carefully behind himself, and then stood up with a growl. He was going to kill M and then hang Bond by his balls in front of the building. Damn MI6 and damn their precious double-oh agents even more!

.

M swore silently as the door opened and Lerner came in, his face furious, the doors snapping shut behind him. He already regretted removing the alcohol from the room, he could tell from fast experience that he was going to need many drinks by the time the meeting was over.

“How bad?” M sighed, leaning back and pinching his nose.

“I have no bloody clue,” Lerner growled, sinking into the chair opposite M.

M raised an eyebrow as he looked at the doctor.

“I let him leave before the appointment was over,” Lerner confessed, “I was afraid he was going to have a panic attack and melt down. But dammit M, I told you to keep him away from Bond and you let Bond keep him in custody for two bloody weeks!?”

“It was an unavoidable situation,” M sighed, “But he's eating, right?”

“Oh, he's eating alright,” Lerner sneered, “And doing every damn thing he even thinks Bond wants.”

M sat up stiffly.

“You sent in an agent and Bond acted like an agent,” Lerner continued, “Complete dependence. I've seen less brainwashed agents rescued from enemy custody.”

“Fuck,” M swore, running a hand over his face, “Dammit Lerner, I didn't think it was that bad or I would have sent someone in.”

“You can't now, if you want to keep him in one piece,” the doctor sighed, hunching over, “He thinks that MI6 will forcibly retire him if he isn't busy pleasing Bond every way he can think of.”

“Dammit,” M looked up, “Bond hasn't...”

“Bond may not realize it, he saw it as a mission to get Q back into shape,” Lerner shrugged, “But are they shagging? Yes, there's no way Bond isn't having him, not with the way he's acting. He may not realize how unstable Q is though.”

“We're going to lose him,” M said. 

“Right now? No. He'll be a good little quartermaster. But, in time, he'll snap. And there's no telling how many he'll bring down with him. You could have another Tiago on your hands right now.”

The room went silent and M's brow furrowed as he thought. Q knew every in and out of their system. He could take down every electronic government he saw fit to destroy with just a computer and an internet connection. He was more dangerous than Tiago; he had no clear target.

“What do we do?” M finally spoke, his voice soft.

“This exact moment? Nothing. Give me a day or two to confer with a few colleagues, this is a very sensitive matter. But I would suggest planning a very long mission for Bond, deep undercover, and then a very long medical leave for Q while we try to help him.

“But M,” Lerner paused, his left hand twitching, “You may never get your quartermaster back. You can pick up all the pieces of the human mind, but you can never fit them all back together again.”

“Thank you,” M nodded, “I'll take this under advisement.”

Lerner nodded, leaving the room as quickly as he had come, and M couldn't blame him. How had he managed to let an over worked quartermaster be used and turned into a mere doll under his care? He sighed and wished for liquor once more, but shook his head. He had failed Q once, he wasn't going to fail him again. And he certainly was going to put down iron gates in the future to prevent something like this from happening ever again; it was clear that the old M had been far too lax with the double-ohs.

He brought up the computer feed of Q-Branch and sighed as he watched Q tinkering with some gadget or another. His smile was plastered on his face like a poorly crafted porcelain doll, and it made M's soul ache.


	17. Chapter 17

M stood in front of the door, his fist clenched tight, and took a deep breath. He dreaded what he was going to do, what might actually happen because of his actions, but it had to be done. He had let things spiral too far out of control for him to do anything but put his foot down and have his say. He was the head of MI6 after all, he needed to do the adult thing. Lives depended on him.

He opened the door slowly and glared at the people inside the room. This conversation was to be private, they did not need to be there. Thankfully they all caught on fairly fast, Q-Branch was full of geniuses, and vacated the room, leaving Q sitting alone at his desk, still tinkering with his little machine.

“Q,” M started, pausing as he approached the broken man.

Q looked up slowly, blinking and glancing around curiously. M sighed as he saw that the odd, stilted smile never left his face. It was so odd to see eyes so hollow staring around, absorbing everything gathered into them but reflecting nothing back out. His poor broken quartermaster.

“M,” Q said, his voice scratchy, “Where did everyone go?”

“I don't know,” M answered honestly, and hoped briefly in the back of his mind that they weren't all off getting into trouble, “But we need to have a talk.”

Q nodded and M pulled up a chair, sitting in front of the quartermaster very carefully. He didn't want to loom over him and spook him by accident, but neither did he want Q to dismiss just how serious what he was about to say was.

“I have to apologize,” M started, “I never should have let this get so bad. I knew you were having issues and I should have arranged for you to get proper care, not the fabrication that you received.”

Q cocked his head to the side, staring at M oddly as the man continued with his speech.

“But I want you to know that, no matter what, your choices are still your own. MI6 will not retire you or terminate you. You can say no to anything you want, Q. Your body and your life and yours and yours only. I promise.”

“Mine?” Q asked slowly, rolling the word around on his tongue as he looked at M thoughtfully.

“Yes Q, yours,” M assured him, placing a hand comfortingly on Q's arm, “Now and always.”

“But I'm Bond's,” Q smiled back at M, his eyes lacking any happy shine, “He will take care of me so I can work with him.”

“Oh Q,” M sighed sadly, “I am so, so sorry.”

“Bond is happy,” Q assured him, “MI6 is happy.”

M nodded, and then stood up slowly, looking down at the broken quartermaster, and reminded himself that he may have failed, but he was doing his best. And he would do whatever it took to give Q back his life, even if it meant that MI6 would lose his skills. They deserved far worse for what they had allowed to happen to the technical genius.

“Be happy, Q,” M finally said, and then walked back out the doors he had entered through.

.

An hour later Q smiled up at Bond as the agent strolled into Q-Branch, not a care in the world. The double-oh leaned down and placed a deep, gently kiss on the boffin's lips and combed his hands through his curls. Q returned the kiss, as he always did, with a small peck at the end, and stared up at Bond with a smile.

“Ready for lunch,” Bond asked, holding out his hand to help Q up out of his chair.

“I think I would like fish and chips,” Q said after a moment, “And tea. With sugar and cream.”

“Alright then,” Bond laughed, “Anything for you. What made you decide on that combination?”

Q paused, his stride faltering as he walked out the doors beside Bond, and then he looked over at Bond, the same smile he had been wearing all day plastered on his face.

“I like fish and chips,” Q said softly, “They're my favorite.”

Bond rolled his eyes and continued to walk forward, pulling Q along with him.

“You couldn't be more British sometimes.”

Q nodded, running his tongue over his lips. He could taste the vinegar already, the salt of the chips cloying at his mouth, the breading of the fish ever so delicious. He loved them so, they were his favorite, and he had missed them for quite a long time.

“Extra vinegar,” Bond asked, breaking him free from his thoughts.

“Extra sugar,” Q replied, and, for the first time in a long time, his smile reached his eyes.

.

Q stared at the wall that night, listening to the soft, even breathing of Bond on the bed behind him. Q felt the glasses held gently in his hands, and thought back to his mother reminding him to always keep them close when he slept so he wouldn't get lost when he woke up.

She had been such a practical woman, Q thought back, she would never have gotten herself into such a situation. But, holding the glasses gently in his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed, he could feel himself waking up. He had been lost for so long, but now he was sure he finally saw everything clearly. 

He looked back at the sleeping man and shook his head with a smile. Bond was so desperate sometimes that it was easy to forgive him. Every tiny thread he pulled close and treasured, afraid that it would drift away on the wind like all the threads before. The little treasure chest in his heart was cold and empty, and he longed to fill it with anything at all. Maybe he had done Q wrong, and Q was certain that he should be furious with him, but he couldn't bring himself to care now. Not anymore.

The past was drifting away from him, and he forgave him. 

Q slipped his glasses on and then stood silently, pulling his clothes from the ground and slipping them on as well. His favorite cardigan, the one with the little hole on the left hem from where it had caught on a bush two years ago, faded and warm. His mother would tut at him for leaving it unmended, and his father would approve of his classic style. And then they would laugh and pull Q in close. 

How he missed them so.

His shoes he waited until after he left the flat to put on, leaving his jacket inside despite the bitter bite of the wind. He hunched low in his knitwear, walking slowly toward the bridge in the pale pre morning light. Gray was slicing its way through the darkness, and Q could even see hints of pink and blossoming oranges and crimson red lurking on the horizon. It was going to be a beautiful day.

The bridge was deserted. He hadn't expected anyone to be there, but it was nice to be there, in the brisk wind, alone. Finally alone after all these months of being watched and monitored. The world, for just that moment, was his and his alone, without a single other living creature. The sunrise was painted for him, the wind blew just to kiss his cheeks, the sidewalk existed just for him to walk upon.

He was Q, and Q was he, and that was all that was needed.

The metal railing was cold and burned at his hands as he lifted himself up to sit upon it. He had often sat like this on other railings as a child when his parents had woken him up early to see the sunrise with him. It was their special time of day, his mother had laughed, just the world for the three of them. But the world had ripped them away from him when a tiny airplane had spilled them across the sky, and Q had been afraid of the sky and the sunrise after that.

But now, now he could almost hear his father pointing out the fading stars, and his mother laughing and passing around the mug of tea from her thermos. Too much sugar and just enough cream, just the way he had always liked it.

Royal velvets faded as the silver stream of light ate away at the darkness, golds and amber spilling across the horizon, red flowers beginning to bud. Q smiled, his life was his own, and fell forward.

He had been wrong all this time. He loved to fly.


	18. Chapter 18

It wasn't raining when they put Q into the ground, though M could still feel the icy touch of winter about his face. Tears would freeze on his cheek if had dared to shed them. Though, he looked toward the small, huddled group of Q's minions, that did not seem to detract other mourners. It had taken them six hours to find where he had disappeared to after Bond had called that morning. Another three to drag his corpse from the river.

Blue lipped and pale, M had been glad for the smile that carved his face. He hadn't broken on the fall or drowned in the river, he had simply froze, happily. 

Moneypenny would have been crying if she had been here, but M had banished her to some far off corner of Scotland, never to be seen or heard from again. Tanner, useful enough, had been buried and absorbed into accounting. And Bond...

“M,” Bond nodded, stepping up from behind the head of MI6.

M glared at the agent, his fists tight. But Bond could not be so easily banished. No matter what mistakes he had done even the Queen saw him as useful. So M had made him as useful as MI6 could handle.

“You're supposed to be on a flight to China,” M pointed out, his voice soft so as to not draw attention to the other mourners.

The priest finished his benediction and the coffin began to be lowered into the cold, hard ground.

“Ceci- Q,” Bond caught himself, “Transferred me to another flight. I... I wanted to be here.”

M grunted, and then stared at the coffin with a sigh. The Q-Branch had insisted on burying him in his silly knit cardigan and with his mug and a package of tea. He would be cold and thirsty, they insisted, and he never went anywhere without his tea. M couldn't deny them that, not with tears streaming down their faces.

“You've done enough damage for a lifetime, Bond,” M growled, resisting the urge to throw the double-oh into the grave as well.

“I'm sorry,” Bond said, his eyes glassy as he fought against the tears that were forming, “I loved him.”

“Not enough,” M replied, “Never enough.”

Bond nodded, and bowed his head. In the cold winter sun M could track the trail of tears down his face as he wiped at them with a handkerchief. A bloody red affair of cloth, a fitting piece of Bond's suit, M thought to himself. M watched as Bond turned to leave, his frame the slumped form of a broken man.

“Bond,” M called out, Bond stopping but not turning around, “Don't bother coming back this time.

Bond nodded, and continued on his way down to his car as M turned back to the funeral. He was glad he had remembered to put a few extra sachets of sugar in Q's mug. He had always liked his tea too sweet.


End file.
